


unfamiliar territories

by Nununununu



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: (Canon divergent after episode 9), Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Clothed Sex, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Rescue, Reunions, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27790087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/pseuds/Nununununu
Summary: “You’re needed,” The Mandalorian says.Convinced to go off-world with the man, Cobb's admittedly unprepared for everything that follows, although he'll be damned if he lets that stop him - and the only thing that matters ultimately is the fact there's no sign of the child.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Cobb Vanth
Comments: 58
Kudos: 389
Collections: Heart Attack Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smaragdbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaragdbird/gifts).



> See end notes for trigger warnings (includes spoilers), with some not particularly graphic threat/harm to children
> 
> Written for the Heart Attack 10k in 2 weeks exchange challenge (originally posted 06/12; updated to match with author reveals). Title from 'Equilibrium of Rivers' by Travis Green
> 
> _soaring into a distant spectrum  
>  far from earth's existence  
> unfamiliar territories extending  
> to the deepest depths_

“You’re needed,” The Mandalorian says.

“Beg pardon?” Cobb’s barely awake after much too little sleep; he’s got this to blame for his less than top-notch response. Scratching his beard, bedhead snagging just a little on the top of the doorframe overhead, he opens the door wider on recognising the other man before his mind’s fully caught up with him and only spares less than half a thought to question whether this is wise.

For all it’s been near on two years, he’s immediately sure it’s the same Mandalorian – the one and only at least around these parts, given the previous owner of Cobb’s own former borrowed armour has still so far failed to show up.

For obvious reasons, he’s always imagined.

This Mandalorian, _Cobb’s_ Mandalorian – although were Cobb less sleep-addled he wouldn’t risk considering him that – is wearing the same unpainted armour as before; speaks in the same calm voice he remembers quite clearly and has the same way of holding himself, contained but ready for movement – or a fight.

Cobb might not know the man’s name, but he sure knows it’s him.

“You’re needed,” The Mandalorian repeats with an amount of impatience in his voice – no, make that restrained urgency, damn; something’s gone wrong. It’s only compounded when he adds, “Now.”

So you see, the way Cobb figures it, this is where he has a choice. Not a choice whether to close the door – that’s not something he could countenance. But a choice whether to press for an answer, to dig his heels in because he’s got his pride and has long past the time when he was forced to accept being ordered around. Or a choice whether to raise an eyebrow but hold a finger up to gesture in request of a moment to ready himself, plucking his hat off the peg next to the door and shrugging into his jacket, holstering the blaster he’s been holding loose next to his thigh before stepping into his boots.

He goes with this second option, and makes quick work of it.

“I take it we’re heading out of town,” Cobb gets what he assumes is a stare, the helmet just seeming to look right at him. Or right through him, perhaps.

No other response. Could be the man’s too wound up for it under the armour; his hands look fisted hard enough they’ve got to be white-knuckled beneath the gloves.

“All right,” Narrowing his eyes a little at the implication, Cobb nonetheless offers a nod easy enough, “Just going to grab my pack and then we can get going – be quicker than a shake of a womp rat’s tail.”

Any desert dweller worth their salt knows to keep a bag ready packed. Anyone who’s not an idiot knows not to forget it on stepping out of Mos Pelgo, even if they’re only planning to be gone a short while – if it’s not bandits, it’s gangs or hungry creatures or quakes. Or just the unforgiving heat and the endless sand.

Cobb knows about these things even better than most. Got a few days’ worth of crackers and dried jerky wrapped up in the pack he swiftly double checks before hoisting up onto his shoulder, basic medical stuff, a few tools and his good pocketknife – the blade better than on the one he keeps in his boot – and a couple of flares. Ammunition, a tiny bottle of alcohol not really fit for drinking, and a fresh kerchief and shirt. The rest of the space is taken up by twin canteens of water.

It’s never enough, of course. Desert wants you dead, then you’re dead. But Cobb’s beaten the odds more than once in his life and he’s got no plan to stop doing that whatever hand fate next decides to deal him.

And it seems it’s dealing him this. The Mandalorian, who killed the krayt dragon and helped save Cobb’s little town. Who needs him.

For what?

Sending up a quick word of hope to the stars up above that his luck’s not going to finally see fit to run out, Cobb extinguishes the sole lamp illuminating his little place, and presses his palm to the door panel to lock it so folk will know he’s left voluntarily and not been taken by force or just walked off – some do, heading at random into the dunes, and don’t look back.

Those ones tend to leave any doors open behind them. Stoves still on, sometimes; things like that.

Cobb trusts his people here to know not to worry for him. Even so, it’s a hell of a thing he’s doing, turning his back on his responsibilities like this. Doesn’t sit right. What kind of Marshal does it make him?

But ignoring the urgency in the Mandalorian’s voice doesn’t sit right either.

It’s in the other man’s stance too, now Cobb’s more alert and looks closer. And Mos Pelgo’s in pretty decent shape days, much better than it was before. They’ve got a good system running now, the townsfolk and the Tuskens, and nothing’s turned up yet in the last two years that they’ve failed to handle, not since the dragon.

His town will survive without him, he’s sure. Has to be sure. Cobb could never walk away else.

“You able to let me know what we’re in for, friend?”

“I –” The Mandalorian half raises a hand in a gesture that halts barely as soon as it’s begun, left uncharacteristically incomplete along with that much truncated sentence. Everything about him implies the lack of further words don’t so much mean a refusal to answer, but that they simply get stuck in his throat.

“No worries, partner; just lead the way,” Whether it’s right or not to call the other man this, especially after so long, it’s also a choice. One Cobb’s going to stick by, unless fate proves him wrong. “Tell me what you can when the time’s right.” A kinder way of putting it than _when you’re able to_.

He gets a short nod for it – jerky, but there. Grateful, perhaps.

Ready after less than a handful of minutes after answering the door to the other man’s insistent knocking, Cobb falls into a quick walk once he’s hopped off his porch into the sand, the Mandalorian swiftly matching his step only to pull right ahead, his own movements a brusque lope that seems barely contained. The rigidity in the line of his back and angle of his arms clear enough, regardless of the armour. Taking heed of this, Cobb increases his pace similarly, rewarded by a slight relaxing of the shoulders under those pauldrons.

The vast majority of the other man’s tension and disquiet, however, still remains. Cobb isn’t focused on this enough that he misses the fact they’re headed out towards a hulking beast of a battered old gunship lurking in the deeper shadows a short distance out of town. The fact the group of Tuskens camping not too far off haven’t raised an alarm only further implies the identity of its owner, as does the fact the Mandalorian starts to disappear straight inside without pause.

Cobb nods to the Tuskens, seeing them watching, as he comes to a pause outside the craft, hands going to his hips reflexively. Just how long has that ramp been left open and what’s climbed up it to make itself a new home?

“Got to say, you might well find yourself playing host to a dozen types of desert critters stowing away in there,” He feels it only fair to warn, given the poisonous nature of a lot of the local fauna and the fact it’ll determinedly wriggle its way into the tiniest gap, let alone such an obvious invitation.

“Hurry up,” He gets the Mandalorian stopping to look back at him with one hand on the rung of a ladder towards the back of the ship. It doesn’t take much to work out that this most likely leads to the cockpit.

It doesn’t take much to work out that Cobb’s expected to climb on board and then up there.

What he doesn’t predict, however, is that they’re going to go off-world.

-*-

The ramp’s already closing as Cobb ducks into the ship and promptly all but steps on a scorpion, sending it on its way out of the narrowing gap behind him with the heel of his boot.

Expression a little wry, he then finds himself evading a variety of paraphernalia hanging from the ceiling and lashed to the narrow walls. For all it’s easily the biggest ship he’s ever set foot in, it’s a touch claustrophobic all the same, and the cockpit, when he reaches it, is even more so.

The Mandalorian’s already there; Cobb need only follow the sound of buttons and switches indicating a start-up sequence.

“Buckle up.”

He gets half a glance from that helmet, the other man’s shoulders back to being rigid as he turns his attention to considering a handheld long-range radio that looks somewhat more than half-crushed. Attempting to turn it on results in an unpleasant fizz and screech that has nothing to do with being out of range, and there’s a grumble swallowed up by the roar of engines firing up as Cobb rests his hand on the back of what looks very much like the co-pilot’s seat.

There’s a jury-rigged seatbelt, a crumpled blanket beneath a toy of some kind – and no sign of the child.

“Not –”

“There. Already on it, partner,” Easing himself down onto the third and only other seat, planting his pack as much out of the way as possible and endeavouring to find space that doesn’t exist for his knees, Cobb saves the Mandalorian the trouble, the other man returning to both navigating the take off and going a fair way towards finishing off the job of crushing the busted up radio.

“You want me to take a look at that?” Cobb can’t help but offer, when another failed attempt to get it to work results in a bitten-off snarl.

The ship wobbles beneath them, engines hiccupping, as the Mandalorian goes very still for a moment. Then as if coming to a decision, he abruptly swivels to pass the radio over – gloved hand transferring something else, something rounded and distinctly smaller, along with it as well.

“Take a look at that, too.”

“What is it?” Cobb’s a little distracted, hooking his pack back and fishing in it for his tools, balancing both items on one thigh while trying not to hit his head as the ship lurches beneath them, before whatever’s bothering it somewhat evens out.

“Bounty puck,” Is the answer, and then they’re off, not in the direction of Mos Eisley or anywhere else nearby.

But _up_.

-*-

“Well, shit.”

While Cobb might have spent an idle moment on one or two of the desert’s easier nights imagining what it might be like heading up off Tatooine and into the stars, he can’t say he’d ever expected it to go like this. Hadn’t expected he’d be near blinded by the brightness of his planet’s own suns, bracing one hand on the too close wall of the cockpit, cursing his height and juggling both his tools and the things he’s been handed. Can’t say he’d anticipated the speed of it or the fact the engines would keep groaning and juddering like they wanted to give out, or that the Mandalorian flew something that apparently involved thumping several controls in order to get them to respond in the first place, gritting his own teeth by the sound of it as he muttered imprecations under his breath.

It’s nothing at all like flying with that borrowed jetpack and Cobb can’t say he’d expected any of this, but he gets himself sorted out after a few moments so he’s not quite so in danger of giving himself a concussion, informs his stomach that it isn’t going to dare even consider feeling nauseous – which it ignores – and strives to focus on the things he’s holding, at least as much to prevent them from falling off his lap potentially never to be found.

Then the ship breaks through the atmosphere, heading away from the blinding glare of the sunlight, and – _oh_.

“I’ll be damned.”

It’s worth it.

Whatever happens next – it’s worth it, just for this. The sight of the stars through the viewscreen. The sight of his own planet beneath them, when the ship turns again, just enough that Tatooine rises into view and – and –

Okay, that would be some intense vertigo that smacks Cobb in the face, right there along with the cold.

Embarrassingly he must make some sort of noise, as he gets the Mandalorian turning round to look at him, more properly this time.

“Are you all right?” There’s an amount of concern behind the smooth quiet of that modulated voice.

“Completely,” Cobb doesn’t quite gasp – why yes, he can breathe quite nicely, thank you, and that’s not a dash of instinctive lizard brain panic sprinkled in with the vertigo, and no he doesn’t feel like he’s freezing to death, nope, not at all.

It’s still worth it, though. Pretty much.

“You’ve never been off-planet,” This could be the emergence of sudden memory; it could just be a statement of fact. Either way, the Mandalorian swings back around to prod at some of the controls, the ship stabilising just long enough for Cobb to feel a moment’s relief, before it shrieks and drops beneath them in a manner that makes him quite grateful he skipped dinner.

While the Mandalorian’s busy cursing and righting their course, Cobb squeezes his eyes shut for just long enough to tell himself to get a grip – and not just on the things he’s holding.

So. The broken radio.

“I’m sorry,” The Mandalorian says, when Cobb’s resumed poking at it with grim determination, forcing himself to focus only on working out what’s gone wrong beyond the obvious damage to the outer casing and nothing else, “This isn’t how I would have –” The sentence is cut off midway and just left, “It’s not ideal; the Crest needs more extensive maintenance than it’s possible to give it right now. Getting into lightspeed will be a little dicey as a result.”

“Don’t you worry about me,” The work’s something to concentrate on anyway. Besides, surely it can’t be that much worse.

-*-

It’s worse.

Doesn’t help that they’re shot at just before the systems finally decide to clear a route, small, swift ships appearing as if out of nowhere to blast off bits of the Razor Crest’s wings and belly without so much as a hello first.

Rather than enquiring after the shields that prove quickly to be out of commission, Cobb just sends up a grateful thought that the ship’s navigational systems don’t go down when the entirety of the on-board lighting otherwise goes out. The ship bucks violently to one side, sending the tool he’s holding glancing off the radio, the sharp end seeing fit to plant itself into the heel of his other hand.

Ah, he’s had far worse.

Dragging off his neckerchief and winding it around his palm to stem the bleeding is a rote enough task Cobb can stare out the viewscreen during it at the way the stars wobble and smear.

“I’m going to guess they’re not supposed to do that,” He concludes when they turn into some fairly fascinating fractal patterns – he’s never seen the like.

“They’re not,” Occupied with flipping switches all over again and ultimately just giving the screen showing their supposed course a smack, the Mandalorian sounds grim.

The screen blips, makes a series of ruder noises, and then, when Cobb’s half-convinced they’re done for, finally decides to behave. Those stars drag out into countless streaks like someone’s painted the galaxy into a series of lines, and a deeper thrum sounds from the engine, the ship settling a bit as if in relief Cobb most certainly shares.

“All right then,” After a cautious moment in which further excitement fails to happen, Cobb permits himself to similarly relax. Well. His hands are shaking but that could well be the cold as much as the adrenalin. It’s fine. They’re having fun. “Here; a gift.” He passes the radio back.

“You fixed it?” The Mandalorian has the gall to sound mildly surprised. Circumstances being what they are, Cobb supposes he could let this slide, but – nah.

“Just for that, I’m not offering to help take a look at your ship,” He points a finger at the other man in what light there is from the controls and coming in from the stars, entirely joking and not expecting it at all when the other man makes a low noise that could almost be amusement, but then stiffens and grabs his hand.

“You’re hurt.”

Oh, right. That?

“Really, it’s nothing,” Going to pull back and wave him off, Cobb instead finds himself obliged to sit through the Mandalorian tugging the neckerchief free and running his thumb over Cobb’s palm.

Wait a second. Running his _bare_ thumb over Cobb’s palm.

_Well, shit_ indeed.

“It isn’t ‘nothing’,” The Mandalorian decides on locating the injury, glove presumably removed for this purpose, “You’re bleeding.” A pause, “And cold.”

“Truly, ain’t nothing worth worrying about,” Cobb pulls a bit of a face, only the glow of the reflected stars licking over the Beskar to indicate the contours of that helmet bowed just a little over his palm, the Mandalorian’s fingers curling seemingly unnoticed around the back of Cobb’s hand.

The other man’s skin is warm and dry; his grip light yet firm. Fuck, Cobb’s heart is pounding. It helps him forget somewhat about feeling like he’s half-frozen, which is something at least.

“I’m sorry I haven’t told you the plan,” It’s almost an echo of the words the Mandalorian had spoken when they’d parted those two years back.

“You feeling any more inclined towards telling me now?” Cobb finds he has to dampen his lips. It’s ridiculous that this should feel intimate, sitting here in the dark in this cramped cockpit in the damaged ship with one of his knees almost brushing the Mandalorian’s, and next to no space left between that helmet and his own head. His hand almost being –

No, he shouldn’t think _cradled_.

“It’s –” A pause. Conflicted, if Cobb has any kind of read on the other man. Then, “It’s not a question of being. Inclined. The child –”

A breath, stifled just like that sentence, almost reminiscent in some ways of a gasp. Then, words draining into action, the Mandalorian leans slightly jerkily down and over to one side in order to fish on the floor by his chair, producing something he tosses over, Cobb registering it only when it near gets him in the face.

A blanket, by the feel of it. Not the one from the kid’s chair, he doesn’t reckon; it’s too big to be that.

“Don’t pretend you don’t need it,” He gets informed, the other man steadier now. Whatever emotion that had assailed him packed back away – or making a good play at it being so.

“Guess I won’t say nothing then,” Half-grimacing in mild embarrassment, Cobb scratches his cheek. His pride only extends so far though; huddling into the slightly musty thing does help, even if he feels kind of stupid and is still damned well shivering. Then the Mandalorian starts refolding the neckerchief into a long strip, “Look, I can do that.”

“Hm,” Is all he gets in return as it’s wrapped back around his hand, “You’ll live.”

“Already knew that,” Cobb takes a breath in. Feeling that much better really, for the conversation as much as the blanket. Still, his hand feels colder than ever for the loss of the touch when the Mandalorian draws back.

There’s the slight movement and sound of him putting back on the glove.

“Look at the puck,” He looks away, helmet glimmering in that starlight as he angles his head to the viewscreen, his voice low.

The unoccupied seat to his other side feels like a gulf.

“All right,” Cobb fishes the thing up off his lap. Turns it on and, oh.

Yeah, okay. At least he’d already guessed, back round about the time the Mandalorian had first passed it over to him.

“Is that supposed to be _me_?” Even so, Cobb squints at the poorly depicted face in the holo, appearing as if it’s made up of a patchwork of features rather than an actual person, “Because we might not get access to holos on the regular in Mos Pelgo, but I’m telling you whoever made that is no kind of artist.”

The on-board lighting decides to partly return at this point, and he’s not the only one to hiss at the seeming brightness, before the HUD in the Mandalorian’s helmet no doubt takes it into account. Without the one that’s no longer his, Cobb just blinks and squints, rubbing an eye, and then gives the Mandalorian a crooked grin.

“That’s it, then? Never imagined you’d be so polite taking someone in, I’ve got to say,” Why the hell had the other man let him dally about getting his stuff? Or maybe –

Maybe that’s not it, on second thought. Maybe it’s not actually about the bounty apparently on his head – in fact, the more he ponders it, the more Cobb’s all but sure of it.

And anyway, if the thing is real, the Mandalorian’s done Cobb and his little town a real big favour by getting him away from Mos Pelgo.

“You know, I’m starting to feel I could make a few good guesses about what’s going on, though I don’t mind keeping mum about them, if you’d rather, and I can stop asking to boot, if you want,” Cobb glances out at the steady stream of stars – calm just like his stomach now – and then over at the other man, “And also, besides that, I’ve got to say thanks.”

He gets a stare from the helmet.

“’Thanks’?” So this is what the Mandalorian sounds like when he’s baffled.

“Sure,” Cobb gives him a grin, “This thing?” He indicates the puck before turning the less than stellar holo off, “Comes together with a tracking fob, right? Could have brought all sorts of trouble to my town. As Marshal, I’ve got to be grateful to you for lessening the chance of that.”

“Bounty hunters could still tear the place apart in search of you,” There’s a sort of bleak truth in the calm pronouncement, and yeah, Cobb’s attempting _not_ to think about that, “But they should continue to be drawn after us instead.”

“I’d say good, but I don’t honestly think this here ship could take it,” So that’s why they’d been shot at by those little ships. Probably one of the reasons the Mandalorian had landed his busted up gunship so close to Mos Pelgo in the first place. Making himself known to anyone coming after its Marshal; making himself a target as well as Cobb.

Damn.

Still, it’s not the main reason for it or for his presence though – Cobb would bet his hat on it.

“Okay,” He abruptly can’t take it anymore. Been playing it cool, will _keep_ playing it cool, but there’s one thing he knows, and he _knows_ he knows, but it would still be real nice to have it confirmed, “Right, I’m just going to say it.”

Silence from the Mandalorian – a good sign or not? Cobb reckons it’s about fifty-fifty odds.

“Like I’ve already said, I can keep my peace on the rest of it if it’s something better not shared,” Even if he’d really rather know, “But the kid.” Cobb can’t help looking over at that empty seat, can’t keep himself from clenching his fingers in towards his palms, “He’s alive, right.”

It’s a statement, not a question; he can’t bring himself to make it otherwise. Still gets more silence in answer, though.

“Because you wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t,” While Cobb means _here_ specifically, sitting in this mostly broken ship giving him a blanket, the meaning changes as he says it, becoming something bigger. Something more.

And yeah. That, too.

“They have him, don’t they,” Cobb gentles his voice, “Don’t have to tell me. But that’s what I reckon and I’m pretty sure I’m right. Whoever put that bounty on my head – they have him.”

“Do you believe I’m planning to trade you for him?” For all it’s a question, the Mandalorian’s reply is flat. Quiet, too, and seemingly emotionless, though Cobb’s completely certain it’s anything but. Helmet trained back on the viewscreen, his hands carefully light on the controls.

“Truthfully?” Leaning back in his chair, Cobb props a knee up in front of him, letting his gaze linger on those streaks of stars instead of on the other man, “I’ve only known the pair of you for a couple of days, those years back. Things being what they were with the dragon, I didn’t get to see you interact that much with him.”

He holds a hand up when the Mandalorian moves slightly. There’s the faint sound of him taking a breath in through the modulator, clearly repressing a response.

“But I saw enough to know you think the galaxy of that kid, and it seems to me like that’s how it should be,” Cobb’s grin tips that bit further, “So if you’re _not_ planning to hand me over in order to get your son back? You should.”


	2. Chapter 2

That’s not how it goes down, in the end – or at least not mostly. But they’re not there yet.

First there’s hyperspace to come out of, which the Razor Crest sure seems highly unlikely to appreciate in its current condition. Cobb spends most of the intervening time with his head stuck in one control panel or another while suggesting the Mandalorian “press that button and see if it works now. No, no, I mean the other button; you know, the one that probably isn’t going to kill us while I’ve got this thing here unplugged that I don’t know the name of and you can’t see”, while the other man works on different yet equally essential repairs, striving to convince the shields that they want to work, and makes similarly fun suggestions in return.

While Cobb can’t claim any experience working on spacecraft prior to this, he’s converted a fair few old podracers and the like, and a fair amount of it becomes intuitive after a while. He’s always liked tinkering with stuff, piecing things together only to take them back apart and turn them into something else, and admittedly feels calmer with something to occupy his hands. It makes the time pass in which his stomach further settles, and quietens down that subconscious part of his mind that keeps trying to point out the thinness of battered metal walls that are all that’s standing between them and space. Most of all it gives him time to think of the Mandalorian’s kid and to wonder what the little one’s going through, and to grit his teeth and to wish hell on the heads of whichever bastards are responsible, if the child’s harmed.

He can understand the Mandalorian’s haste to get him off Tatooine and off towards wherever they’re going, though he can’t quite fathom why the man didn’t just grab him and chuck him on board. But he’s undeniably grateful to have his pack when it comes to grabbing another layer to put on over what he’s wearing when that blanket just doesn’t prove enough to block the cold. Cobb digs out that packet of dried jerky after a while for something to chew on and to get his belly to quit complaining as hours pass with nothing to mark them except for some device breaking, or them succeeding in repairing something else. Leaves the open packet out somewhere between them in implicit offer, just in case, and after perhaps twenty minutes or so hears a faint rustle when he’s at a truly awkward angle on the floor, entombed near up to his elbows in the guts of the cockpit, and then the Mandalorian quietly snorts.

“What is this?”

“Womp rat jerky,” Cobb informs the wiring he’s sorting out, a little amused, “Mos Pelgo speciality, though we’re probably not the only ones to claim that on Tatooine. Great at stopping hunger, isn’t it? Chew on it a while and your desire to keep eating just sort of – goes away.”

A contemplative noise.

“I’ve had worse.”

“There’s always ‘worse’,” Feeling irrationally cheerful, Cobb chews on another piece as he concentrates, juggling the little flashlight he’s borrowed along with a couple of tools, trying to convince his wrist it wants to turn at an angle it’s really not happy about in order to get the wires back in. Picks the conversation back up again, “Stuff’s got salt in it and it ain’t poisonous; don’t matter that it wants to choke you instead. It’s great.”

A nudge of a booted foot against his.

“Thirsty?”

“Lived in the desert all my life,” Still grinning a little, Cobb finishes up – hopefully – with his current task, “I’m always thirsty.” Is it an offer or just an enquiry? “Never mind about that.” He can last far longer than this without water; he’s not even considering unearthing the canteens from his pack for himself. Happy to share though, if the Mandalorian wants some.

“Hm,” Is the response he gets when Cobb’s just gearing up to enquire, and then the other man’s quietly extracting himself from where he’s been working, footsteps echoing slightly as he leaves the cockpit.

“Huh,” Squinting into the darkness under the controls as he turns off the flashlight, Cobb goes to ease out from the cramped space, his back promptly throwing up a protest at the mistreatment it’s suffered as he narrowly avoids banging his head.

It’s a little weird being alone up here, in honesty.

The stars still doing what they’re doing all across the viewscreen, not looking anything like stars at all. The whine and hiccup of the ship, although it’s more stable now for sure. Cobb _likes_ flying, damn it, or at least he’s always liked the only kind of flying he’s ever experienced up until now – finding ways of getting his recycled podracer to go ever faster, and figuring out how to work that jetpack.

This, this right now, would be pretty awesome, if it wasn’t for his concern for the kid. And for the Mandalorian too, if Cobb’s honest – can’t help but suspect that keeping it together must be eating the man up inside, for all he’s got more successful at concealing it.

The cold’s insidious, what meagre warmth Cobb had managed to build up during the repair job swiftly dissipating; whatever heat the ship’s systems are cranking out, it’s far from enough. Determined not to make a fuss about it, he pointedly ignores the blanket, fiddling with the radio a bit more instead now he can actually see it, not about to make a start on anything else on the ship without its owner present to give the go ahead.

“You’re going to kill them for taking him, right?” He asks when the door opens to signal the Mandalorian’s return, attention on straightening out some of that surface damage to the radio’s shell.

“I thought you said it was fixed,” The Mandalorian’s gloved hand appears in his peripheral vision to take it from him, a little buried tension in the gesture.

So he’s still not feeling able, or perhaps willing, to talk about it – fair enough.

“Yeah, should be; I’m just tinkering,” Cobb blinks when some sort of bowl is then placed within his empty fingers, closing them around it reflexively. It’s warm.

Wait, it’s _warm_.

“What is this?” Cobb’s already drinking the stuff and, shit, whatever it is, it’s rich and properly salty, _fiery_ in a way he’s not really experienced before, a good helping of unfamiliar spices making his senses come abruptly alive.

It only takes him that first mouthful to establish that it’s kriffing _delicious_.

Hot enough he’s near burning his mouth by swallowing it as quickly as he is, too. He can’t help but make appreciative noises over it anyway, groaning at the sensation of it melting some of the ice that feels like it’s built up inside him.

“Tell me you’ve already had some.”

The reply to either enquiry takes a while to come, long enough he’s starting to reluctantly extract himself from his enjoyment of the drink in order to raise an eyebrow at the Mandalorian. The other man’s just standing there, watching. Probably hadn’t expected Cobb to be quite so enthusiastic.

“It’s soup,” Is the eventual and not particularly illuminating response. There’s a tone to the Mandalorian’s voice Cobb can’t put his finger on, “And yes. I ate downstairs.”

“ _Good_ ,” Easing himself back against the wall, legs bent awkwardly in order to fit between it and his chair, a yawn rattles its way through Cobb despite his best efforts. Could do with some caf as well, honestly, but he’ll be damned if he complains, “Thanks.” He stretches as best he can, “Seriously.”

“You haven’t slept enough,” A slight huff.

“Like I said earlier,” Scrubbing his forehead with the neckerchief still wrapped around his hand, Cobb waves him off, “Don’t you worry about me.”

“You’ll need to be alert when we reach our destination,” The Mandalorian continues regardless, and then there comes the faint metallic noises that come with him crouching, leaning back carefully to sit against the wall at Cobb’s side as if somehow not noticing there’s barely enough room for Cobb himself down there and not added company.

Not company that objects to getting real close, anyway.

Their shoulders press together, Cobb’s too-thin layers against Beskar; their knees brushing as the Mandalorian sighs and tosses the blanket into Cobb’s lap. The armour’s not as cold as he’d half-thought it might be – it’s not like Cobb ever had the chance to test out the set that never really was his in temperatures other than just ever increasing variations of _hot_.

“Still got more repairs to do,” He can only protest. A touch of nerves in his belly, although it’s mostly still reeling in contentment from the meal; awareness of the other man and the proximity creeping into his throat, “I’ll get up in a second and push through it. Just – had a bit of a cave-in down in the mines last night; nothing interesting, but a pain and a half to clear up. Group of us stayed to sort it out so everyone could get back to work come dawn.”

“You’d just fallen asleep when I knocked,” The Mandalorian predicts easily enough.

“Near broke down my door,” Cobb corrects, but it’s not a complaint. With the warmth of the soup and the nearness and the calm now after all the excitement, his head’s swimming a bit, “Good to see you again though, partner, after all this time, though I sure am sorry about the circumstances.”

“The bounty?” The other man’s voice is uncommonly soft. Is Cobb’s head tipping towards him? He catches himself, back of his skull meeting the wall with a clunk, and scrunches his nose.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I know,” The Mandalorian agrees after another one of those lengthy pauses, right about when Cobb’s decided he’s not going to respond, “I’ll watch over the ship. You rest.”

“Don’t need to,” His eyelids are getting ever heavier to open back up again despite this protest, and he’s pretty sure the artificial gravity is encouraging him to slide over to one side once again. He gets a faint huff for his troubles from the other man.

Then there’s what feels like a gloved hand on his brow guiding his cheek into resting against cool metal, but Cobb can’t rouse himself enough to really be sure of it.

-*-

This is how it goes down, or at least how the ship does.

Cobb wakes up groggily, feeling as if he’s been encased in ice after being determinedly shaken, the sound of a shout echoing in his ears. He opens his eyes to discover the ship out of hyperspace and the stars cartwheeling around them in a way that’s queasily unpleasant, while the Mandalorian grapples with the controls and barks into the radio at the same time.

Well, it’s working.

He’s not speaking any language Cobb recognises, but the tension he keeps out of the words is clear in the set of his shoulders beneath the armour. Yanking hard on the steering, he gets the ship narrowly around a truly massive asteroid that appears as if from out of nowhere, and an alarm starts going off as several unfamiliar ships arch into view from the other side of the great lump of twisted metal and rock.

A reply’s sneered over the radio and then, in less than a second, the ships are firing. For all the patching up, the Razor Crest is still limping and, needless to say, doesn’t appreciate this.

The Mandalorian’s already firing back, even as the first blasts connect.

“Anything I can do here?” Cobb gets himself into his chair, kicks his pack and the blanket out from underfoot, and valiantly ignores the way the ship seems to be attempting to get his teeth to rattle right out of his skull.

“Don’t die,” The Mandalorian responds, so Cobb rolls his eyes, and then they’re doing a series of manoeuvres so rough and choppy, it’s debatable whether any more than half of it is intentional while the rest is the other man hastily compensating as the new damage the ship takes only serves to exacerbate everything it just hadn’t been possible for them to fix.

The enemy ships fire at them, and then again, and then – oh, look, they’ve brought friends, more unfamiliar little fighters swarming the Razor Crest.

“You know, I’m thinking this has to be something other than me just being popular,” Surely the bounty on his head can’t be _that_ high, “These folk still –” Should he say this? Cobb decides to forge ahead, “They still reckon the child is here with you, yeah? They after him?”

_As well_ or _instead_ – neither’s good.

“Yeah. Thankfully,” Sheer quick thinking on the Mandalorian’s part gets several of the enemy ships, but more just pour in to fill the gap, “ _Kriff_.”

Okay, so that ‘thankfully’ doesn’t bode well. Because, of course, wherever the child actually is right now, his dad isn’t there to protect him.

Cobb has the sinking feeling he might just have caused the galaxy to have it in for them again with that question; sends a swift thought to the whirling stars around them that the kid isn’t in for it even more as a result.

“Shit,” His teeth clacking together even harder at a sudden stop and change of direction, he winces as a volley of shots at least glance off the protesting hull in place of the viewscreen that’s already groaning alarmingly. Swinging the ship around, the Mandalorian returns fire with a targeting system that mostly works at first, only for the screen to fragment into near nothing while the hardware shrieks and lets off sudden sparks, “Look, how about you shoot and I fly? Or the other way around; I ain’t fussy.”

Surely Cobb can do _something_ other than just sitting there uselessly, while the other man battles to do everything at once, on top of knowing that, at any moment, further hunters could be tracking down his child, whose safety and wellbeing already lies in the hands of an enemy.

Seriously, how the man’s continuing to keep it together so well, Cobb has no idea. Down to sheer determination and the drive to retrieve the kid, most likely. To do whatever it takes to get him back.

“ _Can_ you fly it in these conditions?” He gets the Mandalorian swivelling around to shoot him a look through the helmet. The addendum hovers unspoken between them, _Or at all?_

“Reckon I can figure it out quick enough,” Cobb’s cut off by a loud burst of static from the radio that resolves into a snarled demand in a new voice. Crying breaks out right after.

A child’s crying.

Not the Mandalorian’s kid by the sound of it, but still. _Still_. The implication is _so_ not good.

“Kriffing damn it,” His hands curl into fists, grimacing as a series of harsh demands breaks out and then to the Mandalorian’s blunt reply in a new unknown tongue, not knowing whether to be grateful or furious when the crying abruptly stops, “Why the hell are there _more_ kids involved and what’s happening to them? And –”

He chokes the rest back, but it rings out between them loud and clear all the same – _and what the hell’s happening to_ your _little one?_

“I doubt knowing would be helpful at this point,” The Mandalorian has gone stiffer than ever beneath his armour, the radio looking close to outright shattering this time in the grip of his hand, “It’s not something I can –” It sounds as if the admission pains him, “I don’t –”

“Didn’t mean to ask you to, friend,” Burying his own discomfort and frustration at the situation, Cobb lets out an explosive breath, “Damn, I sure don’t mean to make things tougher for you than they are already.”

The helmet tilts to inspect him for what feels like much longer than the snatched handful of seconds it is, somehow searching this time, before the moment’s interrupted by another violent impact. Something screeches and then snaps off the back of the Razor Crest, and the ship moans.

The sound of yet another alarm wailing all but conceals the Mandalorian’s quiet-voiced, “You’re not.”

Blinking at him, startled, Cobb starts to answer – quite what, he doesn’t know – distracted when a great green cloud-wreathed planet way larger than that asteroid swells up into sight on the viewscreen, too many ships between them and it.

“ _Kriff_ , okay, you want us to land? I’ll get us down there,” He can do this. Probably. If they spend any longer debating it, they like as not won’t get the chance to find out.

“Shields should last long enough to get us through the atmosphere,” The Mandalorian grabs Cobb’s arm to keep him upright when another barrage of shots nearly sends them both crashing into the viewscreen, and then he’s handing over the steering in order to concentrate on returning fire, grunting with the effort of forcing the controls to stabilise and not just jerk out of his hands.

“Guess I won’t mention how that ‘should’ is real comforting,” Crammed in next to the other man, Cobb focuses on figuring out how to steer the Razor Crest, making a couple of mistakes that end up working to their benefit as it turns out, causing an enemy ship to crash. A test spiral out of the way of strafing fire here and then a flip before a quick turn, and he’s pretty much got it, “All right, though – this part is easy enough.”

Never mind that black smoke is billowing out of somewhere not that far behind them or that it’s really questionable whether those shields are going to live up to the Mandalorian’s claim.

“Steadying our descent will be trickier,” The Mandalorian gets another few of the enemy ships, easier now he’s not multitasking so much, although it still sounds like his teeth are gritted with the effort it takes to keep those controls in line all the same. They’re practically in each other’s laps, hands not quite tangling on and off, something Cobb’s all too aware of even as he refuses to acknowledge it consciously, needing to focus on doing his part in keeping them alive.

“I got it,” There’s a choppy moment or two, but he gets things sorted out as much as the ship can possibly manage, and then they’re diving ahead of their pursuers, the planet seeming to rush towards them like its gearing up to swallowing them on the viewscreen. And this –

Yeah, okay, Cobb gets a good look at it whether he wants to or not and it’s _really fucking terrifying_ , but the Mandalorian does this all the time, right, and –

Something hits the ship from behind, something far more damaging than everything else up until now, and then things become really quite interesting from there on.


	3. Chapter 3

They land. Somehow. Or consciousness returns piecemeal to Cobb anyway until it starts to make somewhat more sense, and he’s pretty sure his jaw hurts too much for him to be dead.

The ship’s real dark around them, silent except for something hissing, and there’s the faint but telling sound of what could be fire coming like as not from down in the hold. A real bad smell to go with it too, and Cobb’s reaching to his collar to drag his neckerchief up over the bottom half of his face before he remembers he had it wrapped around his hand, gone who knows where by this point.

“Partner?” His voice comes out croaky; he coughs right after, “Hey, you with me?”

A faint grunt and then a pained groan, and then something moves beneath Cobb, and – oh shit, he’s basically on top of the other man; that’s a plate of Beskar digging into his hip.

“ _Kriff_ , sorry, you all right?” He clambers somewhat awkwardly off the Mandalorian – and damn but he’ll be thinking about _that_ later, when things aren’t so perilous and he knows the other man is okay. Focuses on the here and now, and the feel of the decidedly uneven floor at least nominally beneath him, the ship’s buried in something, tipped at about forty-five degrees.

It’s also _really_ fucking freezing, somehow even worse than in space, what little heat the ship’s damaged systems provided having gone without trace.

A squint at where Cobb reckons the viewscreen is brings just more darkness, although after a few seconds and some concerted effort he makes out a hint of something falling through it, landing on the viewscreen with surprising softness.

“Stars above,” He outright can’t believe it, too stunned to even notice how he’s back to shivering violently, “Is that –?”

Is it _snow_?

“Uh,” Groaning again, the Mandalorian stirs, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Cobb’s eyesight is starting to adjust enough to see the other man’s hand rise to hover near his helmet, and how that movement is uncharacteristically uncoordinated.

“Hit your head?” Shit, this isn’t good.

“Mm,” The other man sounds unusually absent. This along with the fact he admits it rather than brushing it off, seems a bad sign, “Helmet took most of the impact, but.” There’s the sound of him just breathing for a moment. “You?”

“A whop to the jaw, but I’ll survive,” There’s little point in mentioning his litany of other hurts; the situation for the Mandalorian surely the same. Fishing around for his pack, Cobb finds the blanket instead and stuffs it under his elbow for safekeeping, “Come on, we got to get out of here.”

“The other hunters?” The Mandalorian gets himself up as far as leaning against his chair. Slumping against it really, but Cobb’s not going to point this out, “Need – we need weapons. My rifle.”

Yeah, that’s true for sure. But the fire – or whatever’s responsible for that smell – together with the hissing doesn’t add up to a situation they want to hang around in, fumbling for stuff in the dark.

“No sign of any of their ships yet far as I can tell, but that ain’t saying much,” Cobb’s questing fingers get the strap of his pack, then the Mandalorian’s ankle, and then what turns out to be the man’s blaster, somehow dislodged by the crash and which thankfully doesn’t go off, “Here.” He presses it into the Mandalorian’s hand, “Right. Going to get up and find a way out; you with me? I reckon something’s on fire.”

“Smells – smells like it,” Kriff, he still sounds woozy. Gloved hands moving against the chair as he drags himself up in a way that gets Cobb’s attention despite the urgency and the dark.

That –

That isn’t just due to the head injury, is it. At least not all of it.

“Mind telling me if you can see anything through this gloom right now, partner?” He asks carefully, even as he sends a hand out again in search of a path out of the cockpit, wincing when the control panel spits a shower of dazzling sparks, “You’ve got night vision in there, right?”

Continuing to stubbornly claw his way to his feet, the Mandalorian signally doesn’t react to the sudden brightness.

“All right,” Cobb gets a hand under his elbow, not holding on yet, just making the offer known. Feels the other man stiffen anyway, “Yell at me for presuming later; just tell me how we get out of here now.”

“We need to get to the kid,” The Mandalorian’s voice is strained, his breath still coming short. A fierce, stubborn note to it nonetheless, “Fast.”

“Will do,” Cobb adjusts his stance on the uneven flooring to take more of the other man’s weight without either of them mentioning this, his teeth striving to chatter on in that relentless cold, “Fast as possible. But – come on now. First things first.”

As both the smoke and smell get significantly worse and Cobb near falls over the Mandalorian’s rifle and his own pack as they navigate their way out of the hole that turns out to have been punched in the roof of the ship beyond the door to the cockpit, it becomes more and more obvious that the Mandalorian can’t see at all.

-*-

“Right,” Cobb pronounces when they’re near enough collapsing in snow he’s real sure should _not_ be allowed to be this cold, just about far enough away from the ship they’re hopefully not going to be within blast range if it explodes. ‘Hopefully’ being the key word. “You take this.”

He gets to dump the blanket in the Mandalorian’s lap this time, shooting another quick look around them at what he’s decided must be trees – kind of creepy things in his opinion at least so far, all bare spindly branches towering over them and rustling in the dark – and at the flickering of fire that marks the wreck of the Razor Crest.

“Take this too,” Rifling through his pack for what little medical stuff it contains, Cobb wrangles out the small bacta spray lurking right down the bottom, a true rarity on Tatooine and highly coveted where its existence is even known, “Got another one too for bigger emergencies, and let’s pretend I didn’t just jinx anything by saying that.” He passes over one of the canteens of water next, “Drink this, while you’re at it.”

“Where are you going?” The Mandalorian’s propped against a rock, at least, although he’s got to be near as freezing as Cobb. The snow falling incessantly down on them from an uncaring sky is something Cobb’s real not keen on either.

He’d love to think he’d get the opportunity to change his mind, but the way things are going – well. First things first, like he’d said. They have to save the child. The children.

Anything else is secondary, aside from making sure this here other man doesn’t die.

“Back,” Cobb informs him, already turning. Shit, he hates walking on snow, hates how his feet sink in it, hates how slippery the damn stuff is, even if he has the inkling it might be real pretty were circumstances different and the galaxy not seemingly out to kill them both, “Got an idea I reckon you won’t like.”

“All the more reason _not to do it_ then,” For all the Mandalorian sounds immensely put out, he fails to hoist himself back up. Cobb’s shoulders ache from near carrying him the past – what, half an hour – while having to learn how to walk through something the complete and total opposite of rock or sand, in boots that are completely unsuited for it, “Vanth, if you die –”

At least the trek back to the ship should be faster, now he knows what he’s doing somewhat and only got himself to keep from taking a tumble.

“Not planning on it, partner.”

_Vanth?_ Cobb’s unsurprised to be addressed by his last name, so why should it sting? It’s not like he has any idea what the Mandalorian’s called, or if the other man’s even permitted to tell him.

“Anyhow, you just hang tight. Be back in a jiffy. Yell when you hear me approaching if you ain’t decent and don’t have your face on. Help yourself to anything in there, if you feel like it,” He leaves the pack with the Mandalorian for good measure as well, keeping only the second canteen for himself.

“ _Vanth_ ,” There it is again, with a conflict of clearer emotion in it and more demanding too. Or – more urgent, rather.

“Hey,” Already starting to pick his way back to the ship, Cobb turns to offer him half a grin, pretending he’s not chafing his arms with hands that feel near completely numb, “I’m going to say the same thing to you now, partner. Don’t die. _You’re_ the one who’s needed; your kid’s relying on you and there ain’t no point in pretending we don’t both know that, when it comes down to it, you’ve got more chance than me at saving him and the others. So if I’m wrong and I _don’t_ make it back –?” He shrugs, “Guess you got to find another way to do whatever it is you need me to do. Much as I hate to force that on you, friend, you’ll work it out.”

“Thanks for the confidence,” The Mandalorian grits out and – okay, he sounds caught between frustration and concern. Pretty pissed off to boot, quite possibly at himself as much as Cobb. Fighting spirit – not a bad thing. Warms the blood.

If only his own blood would warm.

“Be back in a shake of a womp rat’s tail, you’ll see,” He takes one last look at the other man just in case, drinking in what he can see of him, the Mandalorian half-lying in the snow against that rock as he is. Wishing there was something more he could do to help; to ensure that they both make it.

To ensure that the kid is all right – and however many other children those unknown bastards have taken along with him. That they _all_ make it.

He can do this much, at least. Turning back around, Cobb resumes making his way doggedly back towards the fire.

-*-

“So that’s the last time I’m crawling into a burning ship for you,” He makes sure to make plenty of noise on the way back, potential enemies around them be damned – if someone’s camping out in this snow, they haven’t shown themselves yet and Cobb’s got a blaster in his hand now he’s not going to hesitate to use. And if it so happens anyone’s surprised the Mandalorian, even half out of commission as he is – or hopefully _was_ – well, Cobb can only imagine the one way that will turn out, “Although on the bright side, that fire looks like it might just do us a good turn and burn itself out before it gets to the fuel. Lucky it’s so cold out.”

The icy wind had been dumping wetness into the busted up ship in the form of a whole lot of snow, and Cobb had shovelled in more in the way of the flames, as much as he could before his hands felt like they threatened to stop working for good.

“It’s the last time I’m letting you,” Is the reply he gets back, and – okay, if Cobb’s legs near go out in response to the strength of his relief at the sound of it, thankfully he can blame the treacherous footing.

“You got your head on the mend and all helmeted back up?” He keeps his gaze on the ground just in case. Must be nearing dawn or whatever passes for it on this fair hellhole of a planet – the snow falling around them has lightened up enough that he’s back to shivering and exhausted and nigh soaked to the bone, but he can see a little more and he sure isn’t going to risk setting eyes on something he shouldn’t, just in case.

“Yeah,” The Mandalorian sounds worn out – and almost sad for a moment, although Cobb might be just hearing things and the other man certainly doesn’t explain why.

Significantly better than he did though, which is another relief Cobb doesn’t even try to deny, as is the welcome sight of the rifle at the ready across the man’s knees when he rounds the corner to look down at him, where the Mandalorian’s now sitting with his back propped against a tree trunk.

Funny thing, those. Cobb touches the gnarled coating of it – what, bark? – distracted just for a second, noting the roughness under his fingers and the way the Mandalorian’s head moves slightly, but doesn’t rise to track the action or otherwise acknowledge it.

Maybe just because there’s no reason to, but.

“You manage to fix the HUD?” Suspecting he already knows the answer, Cobb drops down on his haunches next to the man.

“Not enough. I need proper tools,” That helmet makes a quiet clunk as the Mandalorian leans his head back against the trunk, not quite suppressing a sigh. He pauses, “But thanks. All the same. For the water and –”

Cobb holds a hand up, realises the pointlessness of the gesture, and clears his throat.

“No need to thank me, partner,” He deposits the item he’s carrying on a clean patch of snow next to the man, “Got you another gift.” Gets in, before the Mandalorian has the chance to work out what it is, “Try not to shoot me yet if it’s offensive, okay? Let me help out a bit more with getting your kid and the other ones, first.”

“This is –” Gloved hands closing at once over the helmet, the Mandalorian’s whole demeanour subtly changes.

“I mean, I sure don’t know if it’ll be any good,” Cobb attempts to wipe soot off a cheek, probably just making it worse, already mostly regretting what was no doubt a terrible idea, “But I just thought – if you _can_ use it, if it _is_ all right, then. You know. Probably would help with what we need to do if you could see. I’m real sorry I didn’t ask.”

He’d just been completely certain the Mandalorian would refuse to even hear him out if he did.

“I can’t use it,” His voice strained, the Mandalorian turns his head away. As if he can’t even stand to face towards Cobb, although maybe that’s just Cobb reading into it.

_Damn_.

“But,” The other man’s voice is very quiet when he next speaks, like the words are dragged out of him, “You could.”

-*-

“Nope,” Cobb is having none of that, thank you very much, “Unless you tell me it’s the only way we’re going to save the kids, then –”

The words freeze in his throat. Shit. Why’d he have to go and say that.

“It could well be the only way,” The Mandalorian sighs, “Put it on. They’ll likely believe you are me, although they rely largely on scent and voice.” A faint trace of humour grazes the edges of his exhaustion, slightly lightening his tone, “You’ll just have to try not to talk.”

“You really suggesting I pretend to be you?” Stuck on this, Cobb just stares at him. Yeah, the sun’s definitely rising. The Mandalorian’s got the blanket crumpled half over one leg, the other extended at an angle that highly implies it’s hurting but been considered unworthy of the remaining bacta, his grip loose but still ready on his rifle.

There’s no reason at all why the sight of him should make something ache like anything in Cobb’s chest. Just been stuck out in the snow too long, that’s all.

“I’m not going to –” The idea seems wrong on so many levels. Now he knows that bit more about the armour and the Mandalorian people, the thought of impersonating one doesn’t bear considering, _especially_ given he’s already unintentionally done so in the past, “No way, friend. You telling me your people would be okay with me doing that?”

Is he telling Cobb _he_ would be okay with it? Surely not – although Cobb has no doubt that if it truly _does_ turn out to be their one and only option when it comes to saving the kid, then the Mandalorian will insist on it, regardless of anything else.

“Got to be another solution,” Biting his lip, Cobb coughs when what feels like a bit of leftover smoke decides to make itself known in his lungs, wincing when his jaw decides to complain. He’s taken aback when the Mandalorian moves without warning, a gloved hand leaving the helmet to rise up in Cobb’s direction.

Almost expecting to be grabbed, Cobb’s left floundering a bit when the rough palm instead cups his cheek, thumb brushing his chin.

“You all right there, partner?” Right, okay, so this is – something. If not what his brain immediately informs him it _wants_ it to be, that’s for sure.

Certainly it’s for sure. Isn’t it?

“Your jaw,” The Mandalorian states and, yeah. Of course. That’s all it is. “How is it now? And your other injuries? I know there are more.”

Busted as he is, it’s difficult to say whether Cobb gets caught up more in the implication of care in that calm voice despite the modulator, or the fact the other man’s near enough cradling his face in his hand.

“Damned cold for the most part, if you’ve got to know,” Cobb licks his lips. Very carefully doesn’t let himself otherwise react, regardless of how very much he wants to, “Head’s still screwed on and lungs just about functioning.” He’d coughed the hell out of them on first making it out of the ship, “Nothing else much worth worrying about.”

If only those endless bare trees offered anything approaching shelter, short of chopping a bunch down with a weapon neither of them have.

“Use some of the bacta. And eat something. You’ve got more food in there, haven’t you.”

Cobb snorts lightly, “There’s more jerky.”

He gets the spray returned to him along with the rest of his pack, a precise half of the bacta left.

“You know, you could have used more than that,” He doesn’t quite roll his eyes, “Or are you planning on pretending you’re just sitting down like that because you want to and _not_ because –?”

“It’s fine,” The Mandalorian moves his booted foot in a way that suggests it remains decidedly not fine, but he has no intention of admitting it.

“I ain’t up to carrying you any further,” Cobb points a finger at him regardless, teasing a little but also not, “Letting you know that now; my knees are shot.” It’s his turn to sigh, “We’re just a pair of idiots, aren’t we. Arguing out here in the cold.”

“Speak for yourself,” Huffing faintly in what might just be amusement, the Mandalorian finally lets go of Cobb’s cheek to show Cobb his other arm, where it looks like he’s extracted some of the workings of the weaponry installed there on his wrist. Jury-rigging it together with a power cell and the other assorted guts of some device Cobb can only imagine he must have been carrying with him in a pocket, the whole of it forming something inconveniently leggy.

“Surely that’s not –?” Cobb wrinkles his brow. Because that can’t possibly be the beginnings of a rudimentary explosive.

But it is.

-*-

“You came up with this while unable to see _and_ without blowing your fingers off,” Cobb says not for the first time, even as he raises the thing closer to his eyes to fuss over a couple of connections with the tip of his pocketknife until they’re to his satisfaction, while the Mandalorian works on his helmet, “It’s as a last resort, right?” He's unable to resist, “I know what you’re like with explosives.”

They’re sitting back to back, leaning on one another, the blanket folded beneath them to protect them a bit from the snow underneath like the two old men they are – although Cobb might be just making himself feel better here with his reckoning of the Mandalorian’s age – and sharing the last of the crackers and jerky between them, while Cobb’s emptied what’s left of one canteen into the other and is cautiously experimenting with melting snow into the first.

“Just don’t blow us both up by poking at it,” Is the answer he gets.

“I’ll have you know I only ever poke anything the way it wants to be poked,” Grinning crookedly, Cobb makes another slight adjustment, taking care not to turn his head to the side at any point. Not that it’s likely he’ll catch sight of anything he shouldn’t given their positioning, but best to play it safe nevertheless, “Those tools proving any use now we’ve got some daylight?”

Being able to see them doesn’t make them the _right_ tools, for sure, but Cobb never had been able to scrape together the funds or goods decent enough to barter in order to properly maintain that borrowed old armour back when he wore it, much as he would truly have liked to – he could barely get the HUD to turn on for the first few weeks, let alone convince it to do anything further, and in anything other than full sunlight it had been nigh on impossible to see even approaching adequately out of the visor.

It had still been the best thing ever, all the same, and when he’d got used to the quirks that came with damage and age, wearing it had felt dangerously like being near invulnerable.

Were things different, it would almost be cosy now the sky’s cleared above and the planet’s three suns are up, distant and hazy – _three_ suns, fancy that, and not a single one of them anywhere close to a patch on Tatooine’s. Would be pleasant just spending time with the other man like this, something Cobb’s downright hungry to do if he lets himself admit it, those two years having been a hell of a long time apart.

He’d never thought he’d see the Mandalorian again, in truth.

“ _Yes_ ,” The Mandalorian makes a pleased noise low in his throat that Cobb’s damned if he wouldn’t be over the moons to hear in _entirely_ different circumstances.

It’s a thrill and a half already just to hear him speak without the modulator, although this is something Cobb probably shouldn’t think too much about, and that noise hits him right in the gut.

Or right in the something down around gut-level, anyway.

“Glad to – glad to hear it,” Fuck, his voice cracks. Has a drink of water to wash away the rasp, blaming it determinedly on the smoke. The sky’s empty in the direction of the Razor Crest, though, and he can only trust the fire has indeed burned itself out – it’s going to be a hell of a thing when it’s time for them to leave.

That’s presuming they do get to leave this planet.

“Uh,” Stars, what in the galaxy are either of them _doing_? Especially – especially him. Cobb finds his gaze darts about just for a moment, taking in the still strange figures of the bare trees, the glistening snow, the flat plain of what just could be an icy _lake_ out in the distance, and he’ll be damned if that isn’t the freakiest thing he’s never known enough about to really imagine.

It’s alien, all of it. Utterly different to anything he’s ever experienced; his mind barely knows how to process it.

Panic rises in Cobb’s chest the longer he looks at that frozen lake, but so does awe. He never honestly thought he’d get to leave Tatooine. Never thought he’d get to see anything like this. And the memory of those stars back when they’d risen up out of the atmosphere and how he’d got that glimpse of his own planet, hanging like an impossible ball in the depthless black of space –

Yeah. Yeah, it’s still all worth it.

_Except_ , that is, for whatever’s happened to the kid and the others – and nothing will ever be able to make up for it if any of them have been hurt because of Cobb dillydallying around caught up in the view.

“How you doing back there?” He bends his head again to his work, finishing off a final adjustment and depositing his good pocketknife in his boot alongside the one already there. No use fishing around in the pack for it if he needs it in a hurry, “Got a visual? HUD back to working?”

There’s subtle movement against his back that indicates the Mandalorian putting on his helmet.

“I can see,” A certain tension – a certain readiness – returns to his voice, “Enough.”

“Why do I get the impression that’s not much at all?” Running his fingers through his hair, Cobb twists around to aim a wry grin at the other man, “So, we ready to do this then, partner?”

Fruitlessly dusting the snow off his clothes, he pushes himself up and offers the Mandalorian his hand.

“Din,” The other man says as if he doesn’t intend to, instead of accepting.

“Hm?” Cobb blinks – but then he gets it, “Kriff, wait a minute. That’s –”

“My name,” The Mandalorian – no, scratch that – _Din_ tilts his helmeted head. Then he takes the still proffered hand and Cobb hauls him up, as if he's not grinning helplessly like galaxy’s biggest fool.

“We going to do this then, Din?” He rephrases.

“We’re doing it,” Din agrees.


	4. Chapter 4

Despite everything, Cobb still doesn’t expect it when he ends up led to their destination – which appears nothing more than an unappealingly dank large hole leading down into the ground between a whole bunch of jagged rocks – with his wrists held in front of him in durasteel binders, Din’s hand firm on his arm.

It’s quite something to see the man produce the things from – somewhere, perhaps clipped onto the back of his belt, concealed by the cape.

“You make a habit of carrying those on you?” Cobb’s eyebrows shoot up, not bothering to pretend not to tease, amused and delighted when Din makes a quiet noise that is startlingly close to brief laughter.

Cobb gets the impression the other man startles himself with it just as much, though he gets himself back under control quick enough.

“They come in useful more often than you might think,” While it’s no doubt a simple fact, his tone is wry.

“Oh, I can think of a fair few occasions,” Cobb’s already responding and okay, damn it, he needs to cool it; he shouldn’t be flirting with the man. But –

Well actually, what _is_ the ‘but’? Who is it going to hurt? So long as it isn’t against the Mandalorian creed or something, which Cobb’s sure Din would undoubtedly tell him, if it came to that.

Still, it’s a matter of time and place – and that sure as hell isn’t now.

Leaving off anything further, Cobb therefore just nods when Din indicates the mechanism used to release the binders after a short pause that could mean anything at all, before clicking them closed around Cobb’s wrists.

Shit, he’s –

Right, okay, this is happening. He’s spent a fair amount of his life in binders in one form or another, in truth; both literal and metaphorical, and something that would not be conducive to their mission right now to share. If the reality of them locking around his wrists abruptly makes something rise up in him that Cobb would really rather not acknowledge, well, he can deal with it.

He’s fine with this. Really. Everything’s just a-okay.

“It shouldn’t be for long,” Damn it, there’s sympathy in that modulated voice.

“It’s fine,” Cobb shakes off the memories, or tries to, “Come on, let’s not make him wait any longer.”

He gets a sharp nod in agreement, Din thankfully taking both his word for it and his arm, the latter ostensibly to lead Cobb forwards and prevent him from getting away.

It’s the only time Cobb’s ever been trussed up like this and _not_ on the lookout to escape. The firm grip of Din’s fingers around his elbow probably isn’t supposed to be comforting.

It is, just a little, nonetheless.

-*-

“I have the bounty,” The Mandalorian informs the many toothed, pointed reptilian face that peers suspiciously out from the hole amongst the rocks, following it up with something in that second language he used earlier that Cobb doesn’t recognise – sibilant heavy and not like any speech he’s accustomed to; words that sound like they ought to be spoken with multiple tongues.

The creature slits multiple eyelids as it inspects them both, nostrils flaring, before it scratches its wet-looking cheek with wicked-looking dirty claws and hisses an assent, beckoning a webbed hand curtly for them to follow it in.

“You follow,” This is grunted in Basic with an accent so thick it’s near indecipherable, “No tricks.”

“You mean you or us?” Keeping this under his breath, Cobb refuses to let his feet balk. He’s a miner as well as Marshal of Mos Pelgo, damn it, and entirely used being underground – this here hole leading down into the planet’s innards should feel more comfortable to him that the cramped confines of the Razor Crest, given Cobb can pretty much count on one hand the times he’s been inside anything other than single-storey buildings, a tent or the mines.

But the tunnel the hole leads into is slimy and slippery, off-green with some foul-smelling plant he’s never seen before, and it’s the complete opposite of Tatooine; Din’s boot squelches as he raises his blaster and ducks his helmeted head to go in after the reptilian creature first.

It hasn’t escaped Cobb’s notice that Din is carrying the old helmet tucked into the crook of his free arm much like he would the kid. Cobb’s got his pack on his back himself, and the blanket slung around his shoulders like an oversized scarf however much of an idiot it makes him feel. A regular pair of adventurers setting off into parts unknown.

The water comes up over his ankles in places as he sets off grimly in the other man’s wake, the rough ceiling low enough he’s forced to painfully stoop, hunching in towards his shoulders after a few steps. A few minutes of this is all it takes to make the posture near agonising, his jaw and other aches and pains leftover from the crash seeing fit to also throw up a protest, all seeking to convince his body they never saw the sparse amount of bacta they got.

Refusing to submit to their fuss, Cobb tugs a corner of the blanket up over his mouth to block some of the insidious smell of damp and rot, sparing a mournful thought for the fresh neckerchief buried deep in his pack. It’s very dark inside the tunnel, the way lit only by the torch on Din’s helmet, small swimming creatures gliding towards them as the water swells to shin-height, eyes glimmering as mouths open to show off bristling fangs. Cobb’s forced to kick them away more than once when they try to bury those needle teeth in his boot, unwilling to find out whether they can pierce it successfully enough to get to his leg. There’s little hint of what’s up ahead, only the grumble and slosh of their guide.

Still, it doesn’t take that long for the faint sound of a child crying to become audible, echoing towards them from what the echoes imply is most likely a cave. The sound of it echoes, lost and desolate and alone.

“Shit,” Conscious of Din pausing just up ahead, extinguishing the light, Cobb winces in sympathy, chest aching at just how scary things must be for the kid, “I’m guessing it’d make things worse if we just dashed ahead to try and grab them, and get them out of here.”

“Yes,” The other man’s voice is tight despite the modulator, all that tension and anger he’s been packed down tight inside him leaping back to the fore; for all it’s bitten off, the word sounds close to a growl.

“You’ve been down here before, yeah?” Closing his eyes in the fervent hope they’ll hurry up and adjust, Cobb spares a thought for the fact that he’d really like to draw his own blaster right now, were it not tucked into the other man’s belt.

Hell, he’d quite happily draw it from that location too, were he rid of the damn binders – though he sets this aside as another thought not suited for now.

“Briefly,” This word carries the weight of all sorts of things with it, and none of them good.

“You know it’s most probably a trap,” Making himself concentrating on his footing, Cobb says, quiet, “They got you delivering not just me to them, but yourself too.”

“I know,” Din replies, and then he’s swinging round to press the old helmet into Cobb’s hands, gloved fingers sliding over Cobb’s in a way Cobb tells himself must surely be unintentional, before turning back to stride on into the deeper darkness once more.

-*-

It could be a ruse – or at least this is what Cobb would very much like to tell himself, if he didn’t know damn well that it’s not.

The horrible claustrophobia of the dank tunnel opens up into a vast cave filled with darkly glistening water illuminated by a distinctly nauseating yellow glow coming from some sort of crystal stalactites overhead, slick moss dripping wetness down lumpen muddy walls stained with chemical deposits, the stench overwhelming enough he near gags. Reptilians larger than most humanoids slink out to hiss at them from rough holes their own claws might well have carved into the walls, revealing multiple rows of fangs. There are signs of other tunnels leading elsewhere, winding away even further underground by the look of them, and there’s something in the middle of that water, something vast enough to prevent them from making out the far side of the underground lake, a mud-streaked, misshapen island sticking up out of the oily liquid.

With nothing more than a snicker and flash of sharp teeth as a farewell, the creature they had been nominally following dives into the water, swimming swiftly over to disappear inside a shadowed maw that opens up on that island.

“Oh hell.”

It’s not an island, but a head. A head, and that smaller creature just crawled right on into its mouth.

“Oh hell no,” Cobb’s damn well had enough of giant heads and them eating things and – and fuck, is _that_ why he’s ‘needed’?

He doesn't even need to ask; he knows it is.

“I have the bounty,” Ignoring these entirely reasonable protests, Din calls across the water as if addressing the head and once more presumably repeats it in that other language. Nudging Cobb into stumbling over what little ground there is beyond the tunnel until he near trips into that oily water, the treacherously uneven gritty wet rock ringing the edge of the underground lake narrow enough in places that it’s difficult to find his footing.

Damn it, if he survives this and ever goes off-world again, he's investing in some different boots.

“Partner, you got to know I can’t swim,” For all it’s stating the obvious, Cobb has a decided feeling he’s going to end up testing out this lack of ability. The sheer amount of water is _staggering_ , rank at it is, and there’s nothing to contradict his impression that it’s deep.

“Neither can I,” He gets informed, to his surprise. Din seems so – well, just so generally competent. But of course there will be things he can’t do, and the not inconsiderable weight of Beskar can’t help. Having managed to plant himself headfirst in a number of dunes back when first trying the jetpack out, Cobb can only imagine that trying to navigate deep water in far more extensive armour than that borrowed set to be even more unfun.

“ _The false Mandalorian?_ ”

Is it one of the reptilian creatures leering at them out of the tunnels or clinging to the walls who says this, or is it the immense creature in the lake? It stirs with a disconcerting grinding noise in answer to Din’s call; the whole cave around them shakes. It turns a row of milky white eyes on them, ripples chasing over the surface of the underground lake, swelling into waves that break over their feet as it starts to move slowly but steadily closer.

“Oh shit,” If it’s going for ominous, at least by Cobb’s book, it definitely succeeds.

The quiet huff Din makes might well be agreement.

“Guess we’re probably both in for it then, aren’t we, partner – or maybe just me,” He’s shivering all over again, which surely must be due to the cold. Gets Din’s free hand clamping briefly down on his shoulder perhaps as a result, which is both a bit mortifying and reassuring both at once. Cobb drags in a breath, refuses to acknowledge the weight of the binders still around his wrists, even though a part of him can’t think of anything but, “Is the thing blind?”

“Partially,” Din’s voice drops so quiet Cobb has to strain to hear it, “But sensitive to bright light. Watch out for the smaller versions; they spit an acid-like substance.”

“How I just love things that do that,” Cobb muffles a groan. Raises his shoulders to draw attention to the pack on his back given he can’t make use of his hands, shifting until the straps come loose and the blanket slung about his neck also slides to the ground, “Okay, so now might be a good time to tell you that in here there’s a couple of –”

“ _You have kept us waiting,_ ” That voice from before interrupts, _“But now we shall feast.”_

Something hits him hard in the chest, knocking both the helmet from his grip and his breath clear out of his lungs as it loops around his upper arms and _squeezes_ , punishingly hard.

_“Cobb –!”_ Cobb hears Din get out, or maybe just thinks he hears it, and then that’s it, he’s in the water.

-*-

There’s a chaos of –

Well, there’s just chaos, plain and simple. Cobb has no idea which way is up; only knows that it’s even more freezing, just as freezing as out in the snow, and he can’t breathe. He _can’t_ _fucking_ _breathe_ and he’s choking on water and swallowing it however much he _really_ doesn’t want to, flailing instinctively and as best he can with the binders on, which isn’t at all, and he thinks he might be yelling, except that just gets more water into his lungs.

Needless to say he swiftly establishes that he fucking hates water – or at least _this_ water – even more than snow. He’s isn’t being eaten though, or he doesn’t think he is, although there’s definitely something _really fucking gigantic_ only just about visible down there very close to him that he doesn’t want to think at all about.

“ _Why do you betray us like this? We will eat you after the false one, and take pleasure in crunching your bones,”_ The voice is booming off the slick wet walls when he eventually succeeds in flailing his way up to the surface, wheezing in his haste to gulp in enough air and already feeling half dead, whirling about instinctively until he catches sight of Din.

The other man’s fighting hard, up to his knees in the water and nearly going over as his weight transfers onto the foot he’s been pretending not to favour as he drives three opponents away while a fourth spits a great glob of – yep, that seems very much like acid – right at his helmet.

A swift dodge has the stuff hitting the wall instead, sizzling and melting the rock as it goes down. Which explains the lumpiness of the décor, Cobb supposes.

Shit, he’s supposed to be focusing here. And not just transferring his gaze onto the way Din punches the creature in the mouth.

“Hey partner, if you have a sec, could really do with my hands,” Attempting to request this promptly results in Cobb coughing up a whole lot of that vile water, comes very close to throwing up right after as he staggers towards the shore. As he’s already halfway back down, it’s easy enough to thump the binders into the knees of one of the reptilians when a shove from Din sends it in his direction, causing it to topple over the shoulder Cobb then sticks in its path. A bash with the binders to its scaled stomach sees it down for the count, swallowed up by the water without trace.

Whether it’s dying down there or not, Cobb can’t honestly say he much cares right now.

“Sorry, a – little busy right now,” Din’s got a whole bunch of them attempting to pile on top of him, looking much like they’re set on digging their way through his armour – or, rather, just through the vulnerable soft fleshy parts of him not covered in Beskar – screeching at him as he jabs one in the eye with the end of his rifle and zaps a couple of others, “Hang on –”

He’s bitten then, badly enough it makes him snarl a curse as he grabs the thing’s jaws and drags its teeth back out of the soft meat of his unprotected upper arm, flamethrower making an appearance long enough to get the culprit to retreat, although it just surges right back in again after, along with no few of its friends.

“ _Shit shit shit_ ,” To his immense frustration there’s fuck all Cobb can do to help the other man, a reptilian erupting out of the water in order to leap onto his own back, sharp claws slicing painfully into his shoulders through his jacket, before it does its best to both gouge his throat open and twist off his head. He gets to have fun rolling around with it on that gritty shore as a result – for some definition of fun, anyway – and is feeling that much closer to dead when the binders around his wrists abruptly click and fall away.

“All _right_ ,” Righting himself, Cobb comes up swinging them, getting the nearest creature to him hard around the back of the head, before turning to deal with the one intent on making another try at decapitation.

Stars, but he’s getting too old for this. A swift flurry of blaster bolts clues him in to the fact Din’s still kicking, which turns out to be literally, the other man sending a creature of his own away with the heel of his injured foot, muffling an involuntary sound of pain as he does.

“Cobb – are you all right?” His attention’s on Cobb even so; even as he blasts a second and even greater burst of flames right at the face of the truly massive creature, the thing looming in close as it can, making it screech so loudly several stalactites crack and fall, that awful grinding sound echoing off the walls of the cave as it works itself slowly but steadily back out of range in a manner that hints at this being decidedly temporary.

“Yeah, just dandy,” While it – or whatever that voice was – doesn’t speak again, the damn thing’s got that old helmet he’d borrowed clutched in the centre of its mouth like some sort of prize, and Cobb’s dead certain it’s watching him, gearing up to make that next attempt, “You?”

“Going to get the kid,” This is said like the only answer that matters, though it’s followed up less than a heartbeat later with, “And the others.”

“Yeah, let’s get a move on,” Near staggering as he wades through the oily water back over towards Din, Cobb scrabbles to scoop up his fairly sodden pack once his feet have found the shore, grateful almost beyond bearing when Din presses his blaster into his free hand, meeting him halfway, “You said it doesn’t like bright light, right. Got enough fuel to keep using that much more?”

“Not much,” Is the answer, once Din’s shaken his wrist and given the flames another try, ducking around Cobb to get a reptilian rushing at them with claws extended, while Cobb shoots a second one that drops down seemingly out of nowhere close enough he doesn’t need to aim.

“Well then, let’s see what it makes of the couple of flares I’ve got stashed in here,” Balancing his blaster on his lap, Cobb wrenches his pack open to grab them, while Din moves in to push a bunch of snarling reptilians further back, gaining them just a moment’s respite, “Know I already said it earlier, but – watched you blow yourself up once already, partner, and I don’t fancy witnessing it again. Bomb’s a last resort, remember?”

He gets a nonverbal affirmative that can only charitably be said to sort of resemble _I know_ , but at least Din’s not dashing off to throw himself in the thing’s mouth.

“Might not produce as big a blast as you or I might want, but it’ll bring much of the ceiling down on us nonetheless and I reckon there’s probably more tunnels under this here lake, so we’d also find ourselves falling to boot. Tunnel we came in through could end up compromised more than easy enough too,” Tucking the flares under an arm as he straightens with a creak of his back and throb of his sliced-up shoulders he doesn’t give the time of day to, Cobb scoops his blaster up to fire at a couple of creatures set on sneaking up on them in the water.

“I’d take my chances, but –” Cape flaring as he spins to send a hard kick out behind him, his teeth likely gritted given the huff it sounds very much like he makes through them at the impact – no doubt worsening that injury all the more, damn it – Din gets something large and toothy scurrying away from them fast, before nailing it with a single shot right after.

“Yeah, the kids,” While their opponents have lessened in number, they’re gearing up for another big go in not too much longer by the look of them. Cobb narrows his eyes at the fanged heads he can see rising further back on the surface of that oily lake, just waiting to move in, and the scaled bodies clinging onto the massive shape of their leader’s head, throats working no doubt in readiness to produce that acid-like stuff. Rubbing at his beard and finding it wet with blood, he discovers a couple of gouges clawed into his cheek at some point, “Got any ideas where the hell they are? Going by the echoes, some those tunnels sound like they lead into side chambers, so I’m thinking –”

“We both know where they are,” That usually smooth modulated voice cuts in, as hoarse as if Din’s been chewing on rocks.

In the dim yellow light, his helmeted head turns towards the immense creature and – yeah.

Cobb knows.


	5. Chapter 5

“Kriff. Fucking – just wait. No.”

Yeah. So. While he might have suspected something like it all along, Cobb’s been doing a real good job of denying it, because some things aren’t worth contemplating and this sure is one of them. He finds he’s shaking his head without realising when faced with it now, insides curdling, bile rising up in his throat even as he slams the butt of the blaster right in the face of a reptilian when it leaps for his throat. “ _No_. You’re not telling me that the kids –”

_Din’s_ child, the other little ones –

Of course the thing’s eaten them. That’s why that crying had cut off.

“Just – just how many are we talking about here?” His voice sounds like it belongs to someone else – distant, harsh; all he can hear from a moment is an echo of that desolate sobbing from across the radio, and from when they first arrived in this hellish place.

He’d thought the surface of this planet was awful, with its snow and cold. He should have known the real horror would be underground.

“I don’t know how many, but they’re still alive inside it,” As if the fight drains out of him for a heartbeat, Din falls into stillness, voice low, “Or – there’s the chance they are.”

No, that’s wrong. The fight’s not drained out of him. His stance is ready, prepared for movement at the slightest provocation; his hands fisted around his weapons. He’s just – paused.

For all the reptilians are just keeping on coming at them, they both know there’s only one main enemy. It’s looking at Din now, and he’s looking at it.

“A chance,” Dragging a breath in, Cobb wipes his hand hard over the back of his mouth, struck by the memory of the other man’s silence back in space when he’d asked him about the kid.

So this is what’s kept Din going – the possibility. What’s keeping him going still. This is what’s driving him on.

“I have reason to suspect it stores smaller prey inside its body to feed its offspring when they hatch, while consuming those that are larger itself,” Stirring in order to fire at a creature that bares its fangs at them from a nearby tunnel, just about to spit acid, Din’s otherwise measured response hints at a great underlying snarl of emotions.

“Right, so that ranks as one of the least pleasant things I’ve ever heard,” At least with the krayt dragon it had been _fast_. Very carefully not thinking about the implications, Cobb sends a wary look around the cave, “You’re saying there’re _other_ creatures just waiting somewhere to burst out at us?”

“I destroyed as many of its eggs as I could last time on my way out,” _But it’s probably had more of them since_ goes unsaid. 

“ _Fucking_ –” Just fuck. Din had been right, back then on the ship. Knowing what’s happened to the kid – and the others – doesn’t help.

“Yeah,” Still hoarse, Din agrees.

“These smaller reptiles, what, hunt the kids or something? Kidnap any non-murderous local adults alongside and give them to their – their host to divvy up as it will?” Swallowing a curse as the power cell in his blaster gives out, Cobb kind of hates himself for even suggesting this. And for this question, as well, “So where’d you place Mandalorians in all this?” Former unintentional fake ones, too.

That voice from earlier chooses now to make a belated reappearance, breaking out in snickering laughter that provides a backdrop to the rest of the conversation they both ignore.

“It likes the taste of Beskar,” This is flat, that undercurrent of emotions almost entirely smoothed out. The only things left being self-recrimination, guilt; this is the explanation Din hasn’t been able to speak aloud until now, “I agreed to do a job for a version of these creatures that live outside of this place; the same ones who later put the bounty out on you. Suspected the deal was too good; part of me knew it was a lure.”

“Only so many womp rats or whatever the local equivalent is that the kid can eat though, huh?” Only raising his shoulders a little, Cobb lobs the useless blaster into one of those tunnels, hearing clawed feet skitter back as a result.

A nod. “We needed the credits. He sneaked off, found the entrance down here; I attempted to extract him, but was too late.” Din just sounds plain worn down, “I nearly didn’t make it back out.” His hand goes half up as if to shield his already hidden face before he halts the gesture, turning it into a burst of fire at the massive creature, once again halting its disconcertingly slow approach before the flames splutter out in a way that seems very final, “It was like you said. Earlier. I wouldn’t be much use to him dead.”

_What it must have cost you to leave him here,_ Cobb thinks kind of wildly. Because yeah. If the reptilians had swarmed Din, taking advantage of their numbers as well as that acid and their teeth and claws, or if the massive one had dragged him into the water, like it had Cobb, and just kept him under there for long enough –

Then he would have ended up eaten, sure as not, and the kid left to his fate alone.

“Shit,” Cobb’s hand goes out without thinking to close over the other man’s wrist, “That’s just – _shit_. I’m sorry. He’ll be okay though, you hear? He knows his dad’s coming for him.”

If the noise Din makes is a little broken, Cobb just holds on all the tighter for it.

-*- 

In the end – which is going to happen very shortly, in fact – things go like this.

Well, actually. No. For all the urgency, they somehow manage to have a little bit of an argument first.

“Okay, make good use of these,” Cobb passes the other man the flares and then slides two fingers into his boot, extracting his good pocketknife before stepping back into the water.

“Where are you going _only armed with that_?” Din moves as if not intending to; as if about to reach for him.

“Ain’t much use me jamming a flare in the thing’s mouth and I reckon if you try crawling on in there it’s going to catch up to you real quick that you’ve been keeping on walking and fighting on an ankle or whatever that’s quite possibly broke – and don’t you go telling me it’s not hurting something awful,” Glancing at the way that helmet stares at him, Cobb turns back to narrow his eyes at their foes, “Besides, we already had that discussion about who’s needed more, and only one of us is going to be much use when it comes to protecting the kids, when we got them, from that acid. So it’s my turn now to be first on the menu.”

_“Don’t worry, little bone man; we don’t mind you taking your time coming to us,”_ Apparently the voice has also started feeling livelier, _“We’ll eat the real Mandalorian for dessert.”_

“Real nice of you, yeah, and now shut the fuck up,” Cobb pulls a face.

“ _Cobb_ ,” He gets growled at by Din, and while it’s not exactly the tone of voice he’d ideally like to hear while voluntarily setting off to re-submerge himself in horrendous stinking water and on his way his probable doom, he’ll take it all the same.

“Got to say, I sure appreciate the upgrade from my last name,” Cobb’s stomach aches in a way he can’t rightly blame on the memory of his previous near drowning, “Din.”

He gets a tensing of those shoulders and a tip of the helmet from the other man, although Din focuses stalwartly on picking off a fresh bunch of reptilians getting too close for comfort, his body language decidedly rigid.

“If you’ve come to your senses –” Yeah, he’s not happy all right.

“Nah, just wanted to say your name again,” Shrugging a little, because what else can they do, Cobb then sets out to remind himself just how deep the water is and discover how far he’ll have to get in it before the creature gobbles him up.

-*-

So. The end. Or an end, anyway. It doesn’t take long for Cobb to be eaten, there’s that at least.

The stinking water closes over his head as his foot slips on something and he flounders, fighting panic, before there’s a world-shaking rumbling and everything gets very confusing, very fast.

Then the water recedes, but the stench doesn’t and he’s pretty sure he’s in the creature’s mouth. Has a second to wonder if it’s much like the krayt dragon, before he’s being tossed about, jarring his shoulder on something unforgivingly hard – fuck, like a _tooth_? – before tumbling down over slick horribleness into – into –

“ _Mmm_!” There’s a very distinctive squeal from further down inside the thing.

“ _Fuck shit fuck shit_ , _fucking –_ ” Cobb doesn’t mean to say it; Din’s going to kill him if the kid repeats any of it. But he fumbles around in the complete and utter dark, his palms slipping off cold slimy flesh that feels _really disturbing_ , and there’s another squeal from not that far off, one that grabs his heart and shakes right through him.

He’s yelling, although he doesn’t realise this – yelling for Din that the kid is here and alive and awake, somewhere real close, even though the other man almost certainly is busy fighting out there and can’t do anything about it; almost certainly can’t hear.

“Kid,” Cobb gasps out right away afterwards, hands out, still blinded, half choked, “Kid, I hear you; I’m here; he’s here; your dad’s coming too – where the hell are you?”

Something happens then – something seems to grasp hold of Cobb’s hands in a way he has no chance of explaining, moving them over the slimy insides of the creature with purpose, until his fingers close around a sort of pod.

He cracks it carefully open without even thinking about it.

“Bah!” The kid comes popping out, flailing, burrowing into Cobb’s arms with a trembling wail, and shit, Cobb might just then get all kinds of choked up likewise in sheer profound amazement and relief. Holding the shaking little body yet closer as he curls around the kid in return, half-laughing and half-sobbing in the fetid air.

“Stars, it really is you, kid; you’re a kriffing miracle, you sure are; you’re absolutely going to make your dad’s day,” He curls a hand around the kid’s head, the little face tucked up in close to his neck, heart hurting at the feeling of the shudders rocking through that tiny body. “He’s just waiting for us out there.” This is one way of putting it, “You know where the others are – there are others here, right? They close?”

They need to get out of here, fast.

His good pocketknife’s got lost somewhere – damn him for being fool enough to have it in his hand, not his boot after all – Cobb can only be grateful for his other, shittier blade as he carefully slashes away the bits of the creature that seem to be fastened onto the child, who thankfully only moans in displeasure until it’s off and doesn’t seem hurt for it.

The massive creature heaves around them as he’s finishing up with the task, but then that strange something takes a gentle hold of Cobb’s hands again, and he finds he’s brushing them over further pods, further places where the other kids are stored.

“Shit – I mean kriff – I mean – they awake in there?” He gets the impression of a negative somehow and, attached to his shoulder like a limpet by now, the kid croons. Cobb ducks down lower as whatever part of the creature they’re in seeks to squash them, sending a wild look around through the darkness, wondering where the hell is the way back. Makes a decision, “Right, getting as many of them as we can in one go and, if that ain’t all of them, I’m coming back.”

He’s forcing in each breath by the time he’s got three unconscious little bundles in his arms alongside the child, thankfully fewer than he’d feared. A part of him nonetheless seriously questioning how they’re going to manage this, while the rest gets caught up in being intensely grateful for the feel of each kid’s pulse and the way his hands still move like they’re at least partially someone else’s, the little one sighing against his neck like a lucky charm.

“Okay now, okay – I got you, I got you all, the bad stuff’s nearly over,” Or it had damn well better be, anyway. And that’s the last of them; this knowledge appears in Cobb’s mind with no doubt, although he fumbles around to make sure of it just in case. Finds something else caught deeper down in the creature’s gullet that feels horribly like bones, too long to have belonged to a kid at least, along with a different something that feels very much like –

_Fuck_.

“Your dad really _will_ kill me if I say what I’m –” Breathing’s getting real tricky as Cobb wrangles the unfamiliar and almost entirely crushed helmet free from where it’s stuck, with a murmur of apology for what’s left of its owner, “What I’m thinking right now.”

“Mmm,” There’s just a croon from the kid, as if he’s close to slipping back into unconsciousness, and that feeling wrapped around Cobb’s mind flickers, nearly going out.

“Right, getting a move on,” Gulping for air, however fetid, Cobb tries to gather his swiftly scattering thoughts on his own, “Going to get out of here. No idea how, but –”

The galaxy’s most horrendous noise decides right then to erupt around them, the kid jolted out of his dozing with a cry of alarm, Cobb fumbling not to drop any of the bundles he’s holding while clapping a hand over those sensitive ears. Then there’s a glimpse of light – dazzling, brilliant light up ahead, and the creature heaves violently around them again as something, no, _someone_ forces his way down to them with Cobb’s lost pocketknife clutched in one hand to carve himself handholds as the thing does its utmost to crush them all inside it for good this time, a familiar figure in dirt and blood-streaked armour crawling down to meet them there in the remaining dark.

“ _Din_ ,” Wheezing, Cobb doesn’t hesitate, just reaches out around everything he’s holding and drags the other man in against them, shielding all the little ones as best he can to make sure only he takes the weight of Beskar at the impact, “Careful, carrying a whole lot of precious cargo here.”

“You’re alive,” Din sounds downright _awful_ , “ _The kid_ – _?_ ”

“ _Alive_ , he’s alive too,” Cobb gets out, voice equally bad, “Here –”

“Baba! Baba!” Said kid is already reviving in sheer delight, wriggling furiously, and then all of a sudden Din sounds like he’s choking, helmet going down as he wraps his arms fiercely around the little one and Cobb for good measure as well, the other children tucked up between them and the whole lot of them alive too.

Nothing else matters for a moment – Cobb and the kid just cling onto Din right back in return.

-*-

The flares have long burned out when they finally get out of the thing, the massive creature having given up at long last and decided it’s dead.

There aren’t many of the reptilians left either; Din produces his blaster from somewhere, shoots one in a manner that implies he’s close to falling face first in the disgusting water, and then goes down into the lake on his bad leg in a way that makes the kid cry out.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” He’s shoving his way back up and holding his hands out for the little one immediately, Cobb passing him over, and then they do a bit of a back-and-forth where Cobb passes over the other kids and Din takes them, and sets them down gently on that gritty shore.

Once they’re all on dry land, he yanks his cape off and they get the little ones piled on top of it instead, except for Din’s kid, who doesn’t leave his dad’s arms – small bundles not fully identifiable in the dark; only somewhat humanoid by the feel of it and breathing, _breathing_ , and if they’ve been unconscious throughout their time inside the monstrous creature, Cobb can only hope it will turn out to be a kindness of sorts.

They’re not alone – halfway through checking over the kids as best as he can, he’s obliged to leave off for a bit to make a stab with his shitty pocketknife at a reptilian that appears to take a half-hearted bite out of his arm, but the fight’s gone out of both sides, what creatures there are left concentrating mostly on retreating to the deeper tunnels.

“How’d you kill it?” Cobb asks of the hulking giant slumped in the lake, when he’s all but fallen over that blanket on searching for his pack and wrapped the kids up in it too, sharing what remains of the water in the canteens, his gaze tracking over the walls of the cavern and his face turned away during the time that the helmet goes up.

“Went for the belly,” This answer fails to provide all sorts of detail, like how Din got deep enough under the water in his armour and without being drowned by the reptilians to start with, but he gestures over at what remains of the flares and the Amban rifle that’s also somehow survived, “Those helped.” A gloved hand strokes gently over the tips of long ears as the little one murmurs, fast asleep tucked in a gap in the top of Din’s loosened cuirass, tiny cheek nestled against his dad’s heart. A decision in Din’s voice as he continues, “This one, also.”

“You mean he also helped,” Cobb parses as something slots together in his head – some missing parts. He’s speaking before he knows it, revelation bursting into words and tripping off his tongue, “Yeah, he – he helped me too, I reckon, somehow.”

The kid had done all that, hadn’t he – inside the creature, in the dark. Had been responsible for that strange, calm feeling that had settled over Cobb; the certainty that had guided his hands.

Was the little one also responsible for keeping the other kids unconscious? Could he be? And _how_?

“I got to say I don’t understand,” Scrubbing his face, Cobb can only admit, “But I sure am grateful to the little guy for everything he did.” He stretches, muffling a curse, all of the bits taken out of him from the fight – and earlier – abruptly deciding to make themselves known to him at once.

“Yeah,” Shifting his leg stiffly out in front of him, Din cuts off a groan that seeks to rattle deep in his chest, “I’ll tell you later.”

“Up to getting out of here now?” Cobb eyes the cave around them, “'Cause if you are, I can’t say I want to hang around this here place any more. Toss the bomb in after us as we leave?”

They end up each carrying a couple of cape or blanket wrapped children, the rifle, Cobb’s pack, and whatever else between them, that broken bone or bones Din’s been enduring for so long becoming yet more obvious the further away from the battle they get.

“’Non-murderous locals’ live beyond the lake,” He gets out, breathing hard, when they’re turning their faces – and helmet – up into the bracingly cold reality of the snowy world outside the tunnel that seems far longer on the way out than it did in.

It takes Cobb a moment to recognise his own phrasing, but it makes him grin as soon as he does.

“Reckon they’ll come find us if we holler?” Wrapping his arm more closely around the still unconscious kids he’s holding, desperately hoping to preserve any warmth they might have even as he heartily curses his still soggy clothes, Cobb squints, snow and sun dazzled, around at the frozen trees, “What’s less risky – digging that last bacta spray out my pack and giving a bit to each of the little ones when we don’t know in detail what’s wrong with them, or exposure to the wind and snow?”

For all it could prove deadly if they’re not careful, it’s oddly peaceful out here after everything that went on in the cave. Kind of pretty, too.

Cobb offers the other man his arm accompanied by a quirk of an eyebrow as he waits for Din’s answer.

“Look,” Appearing as if he’s going to automatically refuse for a second, Din accepts on a sigh that doesn’t contain much reluctance. He nods ahead of them, the child letting out a sleepy sound within the cape he’s wrapped around his own armful.

“Hm?” Cobb looks – and there, gathering quietly around the perimeter of the rocky land, back where the trees end, are short, bipedal figures, peering shyly back at them, a mixture of fear and pain-edged hope on their gentle faces.

“Your children are alive, but are unconscious and need medical help,” Din calls to them, repeating it after in that sibilant language, and it breaks through their hesitation right away, the villagers crying out in joy and relief as they surge onto the rocks.

“So do you,” Cobb informs him, when they’re surrounded by the small, desperate adults, and they’ve both carefully passed over the unconscious children to be wrapped up in furs and whisked off for that help. Another fur soon produced and draped gratifyingly over his own shoulders, a villager fussing when they notice the bloodied tears in Cobb’s jacket and his other visible aches and pains, another kind-faced someone doing their utmost to hover over Din, “Don’t you go trying to say you’re fine.”

“I’m fi–” Already starting to say it, Din stops and sighs instead, attempts to wave off the villager firmly but not unkindly, his other hand curled up protectively around his own kid. The helmet gives Cobb a look, “You need bacta too.”

“I’ll survive,” Cobb grins, moved near to laughter by the sheer pique the other man’s body language manages to express. Easing himself away from the rocks they’re leaning on, he offers the other man his hand, “Come on. Get on and toss that bomb down there once our new friends are heading back home, and then you can see to your son.”

“Yeah,” Catching hold of Cobb’s hand, Din stalwartly refuses to wobble on regaining his feet. There’s a moment in which his fingers tighten around Cobb’s instead of letting go, and Cobb doesn’t need to see the man’s face to know they’re smiling at each other; that Din’s smiling at him.

-*-

Cobb doesn’t give Din the thing he’d placed carefully in the top of his pack – doesn’t let himself think about it either – until later, and Din doesn’t ask.

Cobb waits until they’re installed in a domelike little building at the edge of the village someone’s quite possibly given up for them, a seemingly endless stream of local people thronging in and out of it for a fair old while, bringing bacta and other medical supplies, bringing blankets, bringing additional furs and making a fire up and bringing drink and _food_. And while Cobb helps them with all this as much as they let him and as much as he can, his attention is admittedly mostly on Din and the child still safely cradled within the other man’s arms.

Din sees to the kid first, with a tenderness Cobb hasn’t seen in him before, getting the little one cleaned up and in a borrowed outfit one of the locals provides – Cobb’s pretty sure she’s a relative of one of the other kids.

Many of the villagers are speaking of their own children, reporting on their progress, as Din translates despite being intent on his tasks, his attention sharpening when they mention that the kids appear remarkably unhurt – just sleeping now, and no doubt ravenously hungry when they wake.

He says nothing, but his fingers move very gently over his son’s brow.

“Hey,” Cobb says quietly, when their injuries have been dealt with as much as either of them can tolerate, and the kid’s sleeping cocooned in a blanket on his dad’s lap, having woken for long enough to consume a truly tremendous amount of food, happily burped, and then conked back out again.

“Mm?” Din’s propped against the wall, helmet tipped down to watch his kid, armour wiped down and a boot off, his foot propped up in front of him after a fierce yet entirely silent battle over whether he was going to concede to any bacta with the local who appeared to have appointed themselves their personal medic.

“Here,” There’s no way of prettying the ruined helmet up or pretending that the Mandalorian who used to wear it suffered anything other than the fate that they did, so Cobb just passes it over carefully with both hands. Glancing over at where the old one he borrowed sits next to his pack, Din having proved determined to retrieve it from where it had been lodged behind the huge creature’s teeth, “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” Din sounds very tired all over again, immensely weary, and so after a bit Cobb just leans over to blow out the little light the villagers left them when the last few finally trickled out, and listens to the quiet and the dark settle around them; the rustle of Din shifting a little, setting down the helmet carefully, arranging himself in a semi-circle around the kid.

Cobb gazes into that darkness until he can make out the building’s sole window and, through it, the shapes of the still falling snow.

“I think I kind of like it here after all,” He murmurs without intending to.

The kid lets out a tiny coo as Din turns further onto his side in that dark. Towards Cobb, not away. Propped on his back and still fur-wrapped himself, Cobb lets his hand creep out until it brushes the edge of the little one’s blanket, feeling the soft warmth leaking through it from the kid within, and then Din’s fingers are there, lacing with his.

Biting his lip a little, Cobb lets himself hold on in return.

Neither of them say anything further for a timeless while, as the child lies cradled between them, his breathing a reassuring susurrus as he dreams. Tomorrow they’re going to have to start figuring out a way to repair the Razor Crest; to get back off this planet; to find out what happens next.

Cobb’s got no problem with that. He’s just about decided that Din isn’t going to answer, and that’s quite all right too.

“Yeah,” But then softly, his thumb curling in against Cobb’s palm, Din agrees.


	6. Chapter 6

So what happens after the end?

Not much to start with, as it turns out. The kid sleeps and sleeps, wakes to eat and drink every so often, sleeps some more, Din sleeping alongside him, the pair of them buried under blankets and furs, arms wrapped around each other. Once or twice he’s still out of it even when the kid wakes, which leaves Cobb wondering just how long and hard the man had been pushing himself, and not needing to ask to know the answer is _for a really long time_ and _very_.

He gets the kid patting him awake on those occasions, crawling up onto his chest to clap little hands against Cobb’s chin and cheeks, large dark eyes peering at him as he wakes with a mock-groan.

“Got to pee, huh?” For all he seems nonverbal, the kid turns his face away or shuffles in place of using cues like a headshake or nod, but he responds well enough to simple questions and Cobb pointing at his tiny body or at himself, and with time comes to pick up on some of the broader gestures their small hosts use along with a couple of noises that come close to their sibilant words.

Cobb comes to pick up a few of those likewise, mostly along the lines of _thanks for the food, yes please keep do feeding us so long as we’re not denying you dinner yourself, no don’t wake him he’ll eat when he’s ready and I’ve got my eyes shut,_ or at least signs and sounds that grow less clumsy the more he practices them and that achieve the desired result.

He gets to see the kids they rescued too, which is all sorts of a relief, the trio ushered in sometime the next day. The child’s burrowing under his dad’s elbow at once, Din’s light snoring breaking off as he wakes with only a small start, pushing himself up into sitting as his son peeks out shyly at the three other little ones shuffling into the small building to smile tentatively at him, under one of their caretaker’s watchful gaze.

It’s a touch startling to realise that the children of these gentle people stand at eye level with Din’s kid.

The shyness only lasts for a moment, Din providing a toy from somewhere about his person that Cobb had no idea existed or how it survived, and then the kid’s exclaiming over the soft little thing, displaying it in delight to his new friends, their caretaker producing small trinkets they similarly hand over to the trio to show him in return. This breaks the ice, a grand game then promptly breaking out.

“They’re all right?” Din questions the caretaker as soon as the little ones are so distracted, “Returned to good health?” Relaxing noticeably when this is confirmed; something Cobb is only too grateful to hear himself.

“They remember anything?” Is his own enquiry, spoken with an internal wince at the ready in case this gets a _yes_ , repeating it as best he can in the caretaker’s language when Din sounds out the phrase.

“We haven’t yet any reason to believe so,” Is the actual answer, thank the stars, which frees Cobb up to offer the caretaker some of their water and then a seat on the furs, and it’s so _domestic_ he barely thinks anything of it when Din starts quietly taking off his armour, placing it piece by piece in a neat pile next to the bed until he’s just left in his helmet and flight suit.

And it is a bed, isn’t it, or it’s become one – furs and blankets mingled until it’s unclear which are supposed to be Din’s and which are supposed to be Cobb’s, and the child wriggles delightedly between them, chortling like anything, when his new friends have been ushered out for their naptime and the kid’s tired, but determined to explore the world under the covers, slipping away when Din goes to catch him, clambering under his dad’s knees and then Cobb’s.

“Hey, I need that,” Cobb can’t help but laugh himself when the kid next attempts to claim his ankle for who knows what reason, tiny hands clamping onto it as the little one babbles, squealing joyfully when Cobb tickles him gently through the layers. “He’s all right, too,” Still grinning, he shoots a look at Din, unable to hide either his fondness or his relief, “He’ll be all right, won’t he.”

“Yeah,” Din’s voice has a husky note to it, “I think so.”

This time, the hand he raises to Cobb’s jaw is bare.

“Mm?” Blinking, Cobb gently twitches his leg away from the kid just to make him giggle as he chases after it. Thoroughly distracted by the feeling of warm skin as it registers, the feel of Din’s fingers, sure and dry, moving to cup his cheek. The impulse is there at once to lick his lips, “You, ah. You all right?”

“Yeah,” He’s being _looked at_ through that helmet, Din making no attempt to pretend otherwise, visor centred straight on him. Cobb feels his breathing pick up; can’t do anything to steady it out, however he might try.

“Are _you_ all right?” Din asks, and his fingers shift, tips brushing through Cobb’s beard even as his thumb dips down under Cobb’s jaw, “I know the creatures got you with that acid.” His fingers move again, tracing over bacta-healed skin, “Your face was cut up pretty bad; shoulders too.”

“Ah, it’s gone now,” Cobb waves him off, as it has – for the most part – and lets himself draw his hand up to close his fingers loosely around Din’s wrist in return, thumb grazing the cuff of the flight suit where it rides up, not tucking it in but just making the possibility known, “I’m still waiting for you to get up and try out that ankle, and realise you do actually need more bacta.”

“You want me to get up right now?” Din asks lightly enough a bit of a smile could well be in the words, and Cobb’s damned if the man’s not teasing a little.

“You know, I don’t recall saying that,” He does slip his thumb under that cuff then, just for a moment, just long enough to stroke the pad over soft warm skin and the veins running there, and hears as well as feels Din react to the touch, a start going through him, fingers tightening a little where they still rest against Cobb’s cheek.

The tension that’s thrumming between them is interrupted when Cobb startles, letting out an involuntary laugh.

“Oh shi – kriff, kid, that’s my shin you’re gnawing,” The little one’s sure got the teeth for it, as he’s apparently decided to enthusiastically prove.

So then the moment’s broken as they both fumble under the bedding in order to extract him, the kid beaming and immediately raising his little arms for a hug – from Cobb, as if he knows that’s all he needs to do to get the man to forgive him, and if Din just sits there for a moment watching them, he comes in easily enough when the kid extends a tiny hand to grasp even tinier fingers out for him, and Cobb snags hold of the other man’s wrist again to encourage him in too.

-*-

The ship doesn’t prove easy to repair, but there’s a larger settlement some hours north of the lake where the creatures who first hired Din apparently tend to congregate, and where Din turns out to intend to track them down as well as making enquires about parts.

That doesn’t come yet, though; they stay for a while longer in the little icy village first, without discussing it but with mutual consent, both ready to explain it away as giving the child time, letting the little one have a chance to fully recover and play with his new friends – and this is indeed the reason, even if it isn’t the only one.

The snow’s something else altogether when Cobb’s up and about a day or so after the kid’s attack on his shin, when his feet have got too restless for him to stay inside a moment longer and he’s wearing every single item of clothing he possesses – and that some incredibly kind soul has laundered for him in batches, along with the kid’s and, semi-reluctantly, Din’s – and has a wonderfully warm fur cloak on in place of that old blanket. Another hardworking villager has crafted Cobb a pair of boots far more suited for the weather, which he hesitates to accept given he has nothing to gift in return, but then it turns out the small people are more than happy to bring armfuls of broken electronics to make into a mound next to his side of the bed in their little domelike building, and Cobb is equally happy to fix and, when so desired by the owners, upgrade.

It takes Din laughing a little, the rusty sound seeming to surprise the other man all over again, for Cobb to realise he’s restlessly tapping both feet under the covers as he works, the kid tracking this intently from his perch on Din’s knee, a half-eaten egg crammed into his mouth as he prepares to pounce.

“Sorry kid, but I don’t want you to choke,” Cobb manages to still his tapping, gives the little one’s head a gentle rub, shoots a crooked grin at the kid’s still amused dad, and then sets the gadget he was working on aside. Peeling himself up out of the bed into the chillier air of the room only for long enough to dive into the cloak, before angling himself back down again to put on his boots after checking them for spiders – the kid squeals, in hope of another snack. No scorpions to look out for, here.

He’s intently conscious of the fact Din watches him throughout, even as his hands gently stroke his son’s ears, dropping that soft toy into the child’s hands so the little one can gnaw on it instead.

“Take this with you,” Din says, when Cobb’s about to turn to leave and finds the other man offering him his blaster, “Please.”

“All right,” Helpless in the face of this sincerity, Cobb can only acquiesce, grateful to see Din’s got the rifle well within reach on his side of the bed, just in case.

It would be nice to think no one’s going to attack them here. He walks out in the snow, appreciating it far more now that it doesn’t appear set on trying to kill him and Din and the kid are both safe inside in the warmth, and the village is really kind of pretty as the snow-laden tops of the domed buildings glisten in the light of those three suns, and the surface of the frozen lake shimmers like nothing he’s ever seen between the slender shapes of the trees.

But for all its current peace, it’s easy to see how the reptilians attacked these gentle people, how they picked a fair few of them off to feed to the massive creature and kidnapped their kids. The thought of it makes Cobb want to stay long enough to teach them how to defend themselves, to set up a local Marshal, to make sure nothing like it happens again.

Then he wants to go back to Tatooine and check on his own people, and –

And then –

Well. How could he want anything other but to be wherever Din goes – the man, that is, and his kid.

“Aba?” Said kid pops up at Cobb’s ankle seemingly out of nowhere as if purely to make him jump, decked out in a soft little hat and a coat lined with thick fur to the extent he nearly can’t move his arms.

“How’d you just appear like that, huh?” Stooping down to scoop him up when the little one requests to be carried, Cobb then catches a glimpse of Din stepping through the trees to meet them and promptly all but chokes on his own breath.

Damn.

The armour’s back on, cleaned and polished until it glows. Din’s got a fur cloak of his own to go with it, and just the barest trace of a limp, and Cobb looks at him and has no chance whatsoever of looking away.

“Hey,” He has no other recourse but to give the kid on his hip a conspiratorial little nudge, “You remember we saw your friends throwing snowballs this morning?” While clearly wanting to, the child had hung back from joining in, despite gentle encouragement, “What say we throw some at your dad now, huh?”

Squealing in enthusiastic approval at the idea, the kid somewhat gives the game away, but Cobb gets them both crouching on the snow quickly enough that they manage to get Din with a few hastily assembled handfuls quite possibly aided by the kid’s powers, before the other man’s on them, that rusty laugh cranking wonderfully out of him all over again, and it swiftly descends into a bit of a free-for-all.

-*-

They’re alone later that evening when it happens, Cobb needing another walk before the night falls, the suns skimming low over the tree tops, spilling a mix of red and yellow light over the snowy land. The kid’s off staying with his new friends, a whole group of adults watching over them, Din having checked the little dwelling over with a careful tilt of his helmet before one of the caretakers produced a neat little version of a modified blaster to show him, apparently purchased from the next town over in the wake of the kidnappings.

“We don’t intend to be defenceless again,” She’d told him, and he’d nodded, pacified.

It’s the first time they’ve ever just spent time alone together like this, not the Marshal and the Mandalorian, not hunting down the krayt dragon or hurrying to rescue the kid and his friends, and not even Vanth and Djarin – Din having volunteered his last name of his own accord – but just Cobb and Din.

Just Cobb and Din, who turns out to be vengefully minded and gets Cobb with a loose handful of snow right in the face.

“ _Hey!_ ” It’s Cobb’s turn to splutter with surprised laughter, batting the stuff off his beard with more pique than he feels, almost ridiculously charmed.

“Hm,” He gets that laugh again, although Din’s already sobering on the outside, already returning to seriousness, so what option does Cobb have but to tackle him and try to bring him down.

_Try_ being the operative word in that sentence. Even with that old borrowed armour, he can’t deny he’s got neither the weight or pure physical strength to take on Din in a hand-to-hand fight. So he cheats instead, plucking out his shitty pocketknife and pointing it at one of those temptingly vulnerable spots while hoping to all the stars up above it won’t be misconstrued.

“What are you –” Din’s wrist turns before his mind even seems to catch up with the fact he’s under attack, and then he’s holding the knife in his gloved hand – but Cobb slides his own hand in, up and around, and claims it back, gaining himself a noise of slight surprise from the other man.

“Got you,” They’re close, and tussling over the pocketknife only brings them closer, and he goes down easy enough into the loosely packed snow when Din huffs and gets a foot behind Cobb’s ankle.

“That better not be your bad one,” Cobb’s honesty too distracted to know, grinning and breathless as he is where he’s landed, and Din cocks his helmeted head like Cobb himself might raise an eyebrow, holding a hand out to help him up.

“You got to know I’m just going to try to pull you down here with me,” Closing his fingers around the other man’s in preparation, Cobb gives him a look.

“Go ahead and try,” Din proves unmovable, barely even bracing his feet in the snow, Cobb cursing after a few moments of this on a laugh of his own.

“Fine, I give up,” He flops backwards again, hands going up to either side of his head as if in surrender, the cloak doing its job at keeping the cold and wet from coming through.

“No, you don’t,” Din takes a half a step nearer as if involuntarily, gaze on him through the visor, and Cobb gets his own booted foot around one of the man’s knees, gets him at least part of the way down, Din gratifyingly staggering a little.

“You’re right, I sure don’t,” Cobb shoves himself up to make another grab at him and get him down the rest of the way, but Din’s already dropping to a knee himself, and they’re closer than they’ve ever been all of a sudden, at least face to face.

Cobb’s not the only one breathing far harder than he should be.

“ _Cobb_ ,” Din’s gloved hands are at his wrists suddenly, at his forearms, grazing up to Cobb’s elbows, and Cobb gets one of his own hands up, fingers tangling in Din’s cowl.

“You mind this?” He has no intention of touching any higher up, of risking the man running or reacting otherwise poorly in response to what might seem like a play for the helmet, but Din just shakes his head like he knows Cobb wouldn’t even pretend at such a thing.

“No,” There’s a slight tremor to his voice even so, just as there is to his hands when they work their way up to Cobb’s shoulders and then his throat.

They’ve never done anything like this before, but Cobb’s already closing his eyes as a gloved palm goes to cover them. A little noise follows it, not much of anything, as Din’s other hand leaves off touching him in order to do something, and – and, oh.

“Is this okay?” This is – this is Din’s mouth, his _mouth_ , kriff, hot and hungry at Cobb’s jaw, unsteady breath stirring the hair near Cobb’s temple as he forces himself to then wait for the answer. Leaning over Cobb, his cloak falling around them both, on his knees in the snow.

“Kriff yeah, it’s _more_ than okay,” Hooking his arm up over those armoured broad shoulders, Cobb turns blindly into it, nose skimming Din’s cheek, “Trust me.”

“I do,” Din makes a half-broken noise and kisses him, Cobb pushing up a little at once to meet him, other hand moving from the man’s cowl to cup his cheek as their mouths slide into place after a second and move together.

“ _Fuck_ –” Cobb’s got no chance whatsoever of holding back on a groan of his own. He kisses Din and kisses him, groaning all over again as Din kisses him back, a scrape of facial hair against his own making him chuckle even as he does his utmost to reel the other man in even closer, “Come on, partner; come here.”

“I want,” Din’s saying between kisses after a while, and he’s shaking even more noticeably above Cobb each time Cobb touches him, “I _want_ –”

“It’s all right,” Running his hands down the other man’s sides, fingers catching on all the hooks and fastenings to that armour, Cobb noses blindly at Din’s cheek, at the crook of his jaw, “It’s all right, partner; you can have it; it’s yours.”

“I want you to –” Din still can’t say it even so, but he can roll over onto his back as it turns out, and draw Cobb up after him, “This. You – you want to –?”

“This? Hell yeah, I want to,” Cobb ends up burying his face in Din’s hair, gasping near to the other’s man’s ear as they move together, the cold too much to get too creative, but the heat building between them enough to get clothes pushed out of the way just enough to make them both hiss.

“Fuck,” Their height difference is such Cobb needs to rear up a bit to get the best angle when he’s got them both in his hand, and something tugs at his heart, pulls at something deep within his chest, when Din bucks up beneath him, hands closing almost desperately over Cobb’s hips, before making an obvious effort at stopping himself, “It’s all right, it’s all right; I got you.”

“Let me – let me get my helmet back on,” There’s all sorts of emotion in Din’s voice Cobb would very much like to continue hearing, but he makes himself pause obligingly, eyes still closed and face turned away just in case too, his only regret that they’re not going to be able to kiss with it on.

Din gets their positions reversed again after that and takes over with an intent and purpose that drives any thought of anything else whatsoever right out of Cobb’s head. He winds up contorting himself just enough to press his forehead against that helmet come near the end of it, feeling the smooth coolness of the Beskar, listening to the hitch of each of Din’s ragged breaths along with his own, and their fingers tangling together feels almost like a kiss in a way.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Din seemingly loses any control over his body right after, slumping down on top of Cobb until he near wheezes, laughing a little along with it and clinging determinedly onto the other man when Din makes a low noise of apology and goes to move.

“Don’t you go anywhere, partner,” Damn, they’re too old for another round for a while – or at least Cobb is – but he has _plans_ for when they get back to that little house, “Not yet, anyway.”

“All right,” More relaxed than Cobb’s ever known him, Din eases himself back down, helmet propped on Cobb’s shoulder, hand creeping up to slide into his hair, “Don’t you either.”

As if Cobb has the slightest desire, let alone the ability to move from where he is.

“Not planning on it,” Bumping his cheek against that helmet, Cobb strokes the back of Din’s neck where the cowl’s slipped down towards the cloak, humming in response to the other man’s slight shiver. He keeps his voice light, “Not used to being touched like this, are you.”

This is stating the obvious for sure and he can’t say he expects Din to answer. Just soaks in the weight of him and his presence, and all the ways their bodies are touching each other’s.

“Don’t stop,” Din says instead, a little quietly, and there’s that smile in his voice that’s so good to hear as he holds onto Cobb that bit tighter.

“Not planning on that, either,” Cobb agrees, and carries on while the suns continue to sink and the stars spread themselves out slowly over the sky up above them.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings, including spoilers: 
> 
> injury (including head injury and broken bone/s), temporary blindness, non-graphic air crash, near drowning, people being eaten by creatures/threat of, some non-graphic harm/trauma to the Child and other unnamed children (all survive)
> 
> If I've missed anything, please lmk in a comment and I'll add :)


End file.
